


East of the Sea

by littleredspaces



Category: Glee
Genre: Age Difference, Blood and Gore, Fantasy, Gen, Lord of the Rings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 13:13:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 48,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2582627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleredspaces/pseuds/littleredspaces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine is only nineteen, but he’s determined not to let that keep him in Rivendell while all around darkness rises and others are given perilous quests. When a chance for adventure comes he’s quick to take it, even if it means travelling with Kurt, the elf most convinced Blaine’s out of his depth. Perhaps Kurt isn’t wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hunter and Prey

**Author's Note:**

> All thanks goes to the incredible artist hopelesslydevotedgleek and my wonderful beta isthistoosubtlefordanica.

_“But when dark things come from the houseless hills, or creep from sunless woods, they fly from us. What roads would any dare to tread, what safety would there be in quiet lands, or in the homes of simple men at night, if the Dúnedain were asleep, or were all gone into the grave?”_

_–Aragorn_

 

For the first time in three days, Blaine considered that this may have been a mistake.

In the valley below, the shrill cry still echoed harshly off the trees. Blaine had never heard anything like it. He felt almost as though a sense of dread were rising out of the very stones to engulf him, and all around it was getting dark. Aranna backed away from the ledge warily, hooves smacking far too loudly on the loose slate. He quickly reached forward to stroke her, willing her not to make a sound. His fingers were numb against her hair.

They stood in silence a few long moments, until a damp wind shook through the pines, carrying the last of the cry away. Blaine let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He tugged his cloak forward, trying to tuck his hands beneath it while still holding Aranna’s reins. The sound had been more animal than human, but not like any animal Blaine had heard of. There had been a mournful quality to it, like some dying thing calling out a warning to others of its kind. It must be one of the black riders Elrond spoke of—Blaine was almost sure of it. Finally, he was getting close.

A thin mist was sinking slowly through the boughs, pooling around Aranna’s ankles and slipping over the ledge before them. The cry had clearly startled the horse, and she seemed to be growing more anxious by the minute. She wouldn’t like what was coming, but there was nothing for it. If it was indeed one of the riders he would have to act quickly. Perhaps the halflings were nearby, and in danger. If so he had to save them, or if they were not here he could at least lead the rider away back west, as far from Rivendell as he could manage.

Blaine clenched his jaw and tightened his grip. The wind was picking up, rippling through the stiff needles of the trees, but everything else was deathly quiet. It looked as though they were some two-hundred yards above the valley, and the slope was dangerously steep. He could try to charge full speed, but the loose stones would certainly warn the rider, and the risk of losing him beneath the dark trees was too high in an all-out chase. Better, then, to use the fading light to his advantage and come upon the rider unaware. Blaine whispered a quiet command to Aranna, and she carefully began to pick her way north along the ledge, seeking a path to the valley below.

They travelled for nearly a mile, but each time Blaine thought he’d found a trail down the stones were loose, and loud, and he was forced to turn the horse back up the slope in fear of sending the whole side of the hill down in a thunder of noise. Night fell. At last Blaine turned Aranna around and traced the bank back the other way, desperately hoping he wasn’t too late. He couldn’t bear to face lord Elrond like this, confessing he’d set off alone to seek the riders without permission and now had nothing to show for it. His cheeks began to burn at the image. Elrond’s disappointed words. The hot glares from the other elf lords— Glorfindel, Erestor, Khelehkurt—they’d all continue to treat him like a child.

Blaine urged Aranna faster, until they passed the spot where he’d first heard the rider’s cry. The chill of the night had left; his robes were growing clammy and he felt far too hot. He had to get down to the valley. He continued to follow the ledge south, until finally he found a place where the slope appeared a bit more gradual. Heart thumping he decided to go for it. With a tug on Aranna’s reins she veered toward the edge, letting loose a few large flat stones that clattered noisily down the bank. Blaine gritted his teeth but there was nothing for it, he had to press on noise or no.

And then it came again. A dark, cold cry took up all around him. Blaine’s heart leapt even as it froze. Aranna startled and sprung back from the ledge, neighing loudly into the night. From below Blaine heard, or thought he heard, a horse grunt in answer—distant, but not nearly as distant as he’d feared.

The rider was still there, it sounded closer than ever. He could still find it, try to catch it. There had been no answering cry—surely that meant there was only one rider below. Maybe he could do better than trying to lead him away west. Blaine’s palm fell to the leather case on his belt that held his throwing knife. He’d almost perfected shots from thirty feet, and landed more than a few from forty. If he could just get close enough, creep up from behind a tree, he could almost certainly slay the rider. Leave the corpse in the woods and take the horse back to Rivendell as proof. Better yet, leave the corpse dead on the horse and bring the whole body back for the elves to examine. He grinned excitedly—imagine the fright the lookouts would have seeing the evil horse rounding the road to the ford, until Blaine stepped out to follow.

Aranna continued to sway impatiently, scuffing her heels as though to back away, but waiting for Blaine’s command. Blaine could feel her muscles tremoring. It was no good. If there was any hope of catching the black rider unaware he couldn’t risk riding down the stony bank. He couldn’t risk riding at all, and certainly not with a horse on the verge of startling. This would have to be done on foot.

Softly, he leapt down from Aranna’s back and stroked her reassuringly, leading her away from the ledge to the tall trees behind.

“You’ll have to wait,” he whispered gently, pressing his forehead to her lowered neck. “I won’t be long. And then we’ll go home. Back to your stables.” She stood silently as he knotted her to one of the pines. He could feel her muscles wound hard with worry and he wished he had time to calm her. But there was nothing for it, and she would be calm enough when he slayed the rider and came back to take her home. With one last stroke her turned away from Aranna and headed for the ledge.

By now the mist had thinned and almost cleared, and the waning moon was casting a pale light down the slope and onto the treetops of the valley below. Blaine imagined there must be some creek at the valley’s base, but the forest appeared to stretch a half-mile along the width of the gorge, and though the trees looked sparse enough to walk between the shadows loomed thick beneath them.

Blaine managed to pick a route half-way down the slope before the first rocks began to shift beneath him. He held his breath as a few small stones tumbled bluntly forward then clacked to a stop. It hadn’t been that loud. Still he waited a minute, straining his eyes and listening to the soft wind rustling the branches below. There was no sign of horse or rider. Which also meant no sign the rider had heard him. With renewed confidence Blaine set out again, balancing from one slab of rock to the next in the moonlight.

Finally rock gave way to grass and he had reached the bottom. Drawing his cloak dark about him he sprung off into the line of pines and slipped into the growth beneath them. The cry had come from somewhere up ahead—it couldn’t have been that far, but he’d have to be cautious. He unbuckled his knife case as he walked, relishing the feel of the elven blade in his hand. Maethor had often remarked on Blaine’s progress with blade and with bow; the elf would be so proud when Blaine told him he’d struck a rider. And in the dark!

Somewhere up ahead there was a muted crack, like a twig or branch being disturbed. Blaine instinctively pressed against a tree, then cursed himself as the branch he hit rustled loudly, a few dry ends snapping loose. He stood still barely daring to breathe. And then he felt it.

A cold sense of terror descended on the woods all around. The air was too still, too quiet, and everything felt as though it were starting to freeze, like ice was growing to coat the trees from the inside out. Blaine had a desperate inclination to run away, and yet something stronger stirred in the back of his mind. A grotesque curiosity, like some dead thing lingered ahead and he had to see it, smell its rot or run gloveless fingers along its sickened flesh. The curiosity grew until it was all he could do not to leave his hiding place and run into the open. He forced himself to clench his knife harder. If he was to seek the creature it was to kill it, not to gawk at it. And yet.

Gingerly Blaine stepped forward, just a little, and peered out from his (far too exposed) hiding place. Ahead the last trails of mist circled through the woods, but there was no rider to be seen. Still, the feel of cold and death lingered, sparking something in Blaine’s throat. This was the feeling they talked about, in the tales and songs. The feeling that you were about to _do_ something, that you were about to _matter_. His limbs felt vaguely detached, like they did not belong to him, and they shook but this heart was racing with something far stronger than fear. His legs began to carry him forward. Beneath his cloak the sound of the night was muffled by the thudding of blood in his ears, so he shook the hood loose, and the cool night air curled around him. Everything felt heavy and far too close. Black trees with black branches, all drooping with moss and seeming to press him further into the forest.

Blaine had to find it. His footsteps began to land louder against the forest floor. Instead of weaving carefully between the branches he plunged forward, no longer caring for the noise, ready to goad the creature in. He lifted his knife. He wouldn’t be fooled, he wouldn’t be scared, he would find it, and he would kill it, and the halflings, wherever they were, would be safe. Something seemed to linger somewhere to the right, some muffled sound or sense, and Blaine veered toward it. He scanned the shadows quickly as he moved, looking for some form or shape within them, anything to indicate—

There! A dark motion beneath a tree, and automatically he gauged the distance, took two strides forward, and flung the knife. An inhale later the blade hit. There was a cry—not the cold deathly cry from before, but an animal sound, the sick whine of a horse rearing back in pain. He’d hit the steed. Not the rider but second best, and with the animal in shock there was no time to waste. With a shout Blaine drew his sword and ran full force toward the horse, ready to strike at the rider above.

And then he stopped. The horse had reared backward, hectic and pained, but through a glance of moonlight he could see clearly there was no rider on its back. Then the horse sprung off into the bush, knife leaving with it. Blaine stopped stock-still. By the look of things his knife had hurt the horse but barely slowed it. It had been a poor shot. And the rider was loose. Well. At least they were both on foot now. He couldn’t be far.

Blaine spun slowly, foot crossing foot, scanning in all directions. The clattering hoof falls faded and the eerie still of the valley settled in once again. There was a long moment of extreme calm, and a desperate foreboding grew within him. Then he saw it. Growing out of the shadows before him: a black abyss cut from the trees behind. Blaine raised his blade, but his arm seemed to have tripled in weight. He meant to step forward, but he paused, and the black shape grew and grew: the form of a man, but perilously tall and ancient between the trees. Solemnly, the hooded figure began to move toward him.

“Stop,” commanded Blaine, but his voice was barely more than a whisper. He could no longer feel his hands, but he would not drop his sword. “Stop.”

Then the creature spoke in a fell voice, as though carried out of ages long ago: “Where are the halflings?”

_Rivendell_ , everything within him longed to answer, his lips quaking with the word, _Rivendell, they go to Rivendell_ , but he pressed his lips tight and stiffened his grip on the blade.

“Where are the halflings,” the voice repeated, but it was not the same voice. It came at him from behind, scratching like steel against ice, and Blaine turned to see a second shadow, stained black against the night, perched upon its steed and growing steadily nearer. Blaine’s heart fell. They were tall, taller than men or elves, draped in cursed robes, and the beast huffed metallic and breathy in the cold. Against two there could be no battle. His only hope was to flee, and Aranna was tied up far away.

Blaine could feel the blade loosen in his hand. He would not tell where the halflings were headed. He would not. He turned and with every bit of energy he could muster, he ran.

Blaine dodged between trees, panting loudly. A branch clipped his side and his sword tumbled from his hand, but he didn’t dare turn back. He could feel the evil presence gaining on him. There was a sound of hooves behind to his right, far enough to be hidden by the trees but growing louder. Somehow he sprinted faster. If he could make it through the trees, and up the hill, if he could make it to Aranna he would escape. She was a steed of Rivendell, she could surely outrun any horse of Mordor. In the dim light he could just make out the stony bank ahead, but something looked wrong, he was some ways south, he guessed, from the place he had stumbled down. Growing desperate he called Aranna’s name, but his voice seemed swallowed by the foul air. The rhythm of hooves drew closer. Then Blaine thought he heard another sound, the shake of loose stones as an animal galloped down the bank, and his heart leapt within him. Aranna had broken free, she’d come for him—but there was the loud blast of a battle horn and no, no, it was another black horse skidding down the slate toward him, the dark outline of a rider on its back. Blaine frantically scanned the woods to his left but it was no use. There was no hope of outrunning two riders on foot and in the dark, not when one blocked his path to the hill, and his energy was already fading. The dark presence behind seemed to grow tangible, like a cold press of stone against his back, and he knew the horse was upon him. He turned to see the rider’s warped hand reaching forward. His raised arm was pushed aside and frozen fingers closed around his shoulder. Everything faded far away into a restless black.


	2. Home

Blaine opened his eyes to a rush of leaves rattling through dry boughs. High above, the sky swelled grey with swift ranks of cloud. He was laid on his back—straight on the ground, judging from the uneven jabs of rock or wood beneath his shoulders. He stretched achingly and let his eyes fall closed, listening to the wind working through the treetops. Somewhere far away a bird was chirping.

“Where am I?” he wondered aloud.

“A day’s ride from Rivendell,” a high voice answered. “Or I should say two days, at this rate. Though perhaps I can persuade you to go faster, if you have finally decided to wake up.”

Blaine rolled his head toward the voice automatically. Across the narrow glade a slim elf was hunched, bundled in a midnight-blue robe and poking at the embers of a campfire. Blaine raised his head, and immediately his stomach twisted. It was Kurt.

“Lord Khelehkurt.”

The elf continued to tend the fire, adding sticks until the flames began to smoke and crackle, then settling into the grass with crossed legs and eyeing Blaine sternly. Blaine was suddenly very aware that he lay flat and exposed in the forest. He wanted to at least roll onto his side but even that exertion felt a little beyond him. He clenched his jaw and waited.

“One day,” the elf began, annunciating each word carefully through barred teeth, “if the blessed hope should come to pass, all free peoples of this earth will know the name of him whose mission you have drawn me from so instead I might save _you_ from your stupidity. Do tell me, Blaine, what thoughts— _if any_ —passed through your thickened head to make you leave the house of Elrond, in secret, with the Nine pressing at our gates!”

Blaine’s whole body stiffened. He did his best not to stir, until it occurred to him that Kurt was waiting for an explanation. “I did not understand,” he offered simply. He could see now the danger had been greater than he’d realized, when he’d set out alone. Heat was building in his cheeks, and he would not meet Kurt’s eye.

“You were not meant to understand!” exclaimed Kurt. There was a flurry of robes as the elf stood and began to pace across the glade. “It is not your place, Blaine son of Andros, to know the secrets of the wise. If it were, you might comprehend just what it was you rode to meet, and the terror would keep you from ever taking leave Rivendell again!”

Blaine’s brow furrowed, and behind his shame a silent anger began to burn. “I am sorry. You must know that.” Kurt’s pacing continued, and Blaine struggled to explain. “I only wanted to help. My attempt was short-sighted, maybe, but surely you can all see what it does to me, being cooped in Rivendell, rumors of war whispered all around me, with nothing I can do to help.” Blaine’s head was beginning to ache, as though the trauma of the chase was finally catching up to him. To his disappointment, it seemed the lecture wasn’t over.

“And what would you do?” demanded Kurt, stilling his stride and glaring at Blaine where he lay. “Ride off alone seeking ancient dangers, only to fall before them? Would you persist in coaxing the rest of us, here at the deciding of the world, to abandon greater tasks to rescue you from evil? You are too young to play at the wars of men, son of Andros, too young to even understand their purpose.”

“What must I do to prove myself to all of you?” demanded Blaine, propping himself up though it sent sparks of pain along his shoulder. “I am a child of the Dúnedain, a Ranger of the North! These battles are mine to fight as well! Is that not why Lord Elrond has housed me all these years?”

“No,” Kurt answered sharply. “You were raised in Rivendell because you were but a small child when Elrond’s sons found you in the burning circle of a ranger camp, and because Gilrean, mother of the King, pitied you when first they brought you to us and bid us let you stay. She claimed to see a light upon your future, ‘faint as the flickering of a candle, but—’”

“‘Fair if sheltered from the night,’” Blaine cut in, falling back against the earth and crossing his arms. “Would you believe I’ve already heard this story?”

It was probably snippier than he had ever been with one of the high elves, and he almost regretted it. Kurt glared at him hard, then continued as though he had not been interrupted. “Elrond took heed of Gilrean’s words and housed you out of love for _her_ , and for Aragorn her son. However, Blaine,” Kurt huffed the name in a most unelven fashion, hands coming to rest indignant on his hips, “she has passed on, and you were never of the line of kings. A ranger, you say? What have you done to guard the North, to seek out dark things in the night, and keep the wild at bay? No, son of Andros, you are of their blood, but you are not a ranger yet.”

Blaine was silent, but a familiar yearning stirred within him. He longed to carry the mantle of his people, to journey beyond the shelter of the elves to lands where the flame within him could be fanned into more than a trembling candle. He’d reached nineteen years. Among his own people he might by now be reckoned strong, and proud. But in a house of elves he seemed younger than a child, and in darkening times every mission lay beyond his skill.

He stared upward, watching the smoke drift between the branches and wishing that Kurt would just leave. He didn’t. At last Blaine heard the elf sink back to his sitting place by the fire. As the silence stretched, Blaine’s anger was slowly overshadowed by a stubborn curiosity.

“There were two black riders,” he said to the sky. “How did I get away?”

“You have me to thank for that,” Kurt replied tersely.

Blaine rolled his head to face Khelehkurt. The elf sat stiff, absently examining the edge of his outer cloak between two fingers. “It was you,” Blaine realized aloud. “The second rider, coming down the hill on a black horse. It was your horn that sounded.”

Kurt nodded. “It was. Though until I reached the ledge I did not know it was you I tracked. I hoped I was following one of the hobbits; indeed if I’d realized my error sooner I’d have left your trail at once. But it’s no good now. I can only hope Glorfindel has found the halflings, and that he and Aragorn managed to fend off the nazgul riders. For my part, it appears my quest has changed. Instead of challenging the forces of Mordor I get to bear a half-conscious man-child back to Rivendell.”

It occurred to Blaine he was probably still expected to say thank you. He swallowed. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Kurt smoothed the rich fabric of his cloak flat and glanced over. He let out a strained sigh. “Tell me what happened, Blaine. You set out thinking you could help find the black riders. But how did you wind up alone in a valley with your horse tied up far away?”

“I was trying to sneak up on foot,” Blaine answered weakly. Here in the light of day, it all seemed very foolish. He could feel Kurt’s eyes on him, agreeing with that assessment. “The rocks were too loud,” Blaine tried to explain, “and Aranna was a wreck. She kept starting and neighing and wanting to run away.”

“At least one of you had some sense,” Kurt retorted.

“It wasn’t a complete loss,” Blaine argued, the events of the night coming back more clearly. “They asked me where the halflings were and I resisted. I ran instead of answering!”

Kurt raised an eyebrow. “And could you have told them where the halflings were?”

“Rivendell, of course. I felt a great pressure within me to say Rivendell, but I didn’t!”

Kurt laughed at that, actually laughed, high and musical and infuriating. “Dear boy,” he explained, “the riders knew full well where the hobbits were heading. If that was all the news you had to tell there was no great victory in resisting.”

“But I wounded a horse!” Blaine exclaimed, determined to have something of his efforts recognized. “I hit it with my knife, in the dark, it was hurt, it ran away—”

“Yet clearly the wound was not deep, for when I came upon the site the horse had still managed to bear it’s rider away south.”

“Did you catch them?” asked Blaine. “Did you kill the one who caught me?”

Kurt shook his head. “The riders are not easily killed. Certainly not by a throwing knife, though yours was a blade of Rivendell, and might have slowed it, had you struck your target.” Blaine grimaced at the reminder of his poor aim and lost knife. “As it was, I drove off the rider that pursued you without much trouble, for their leader was not present. But you were wounded by its touch, and in the end I didn’t dare leave you to follow it. Instead I tended to your shoulder, collected your sword and horse, and bore you sleeping up the bank and back toward the ford.”

It was the first good news Blaine had heard. “Aranna? And my sword? They are both here?”

Kurt nodded. “They are. It seems that in the end things came out rather well for you on your little adventure. Let’s just hope that others have not had to pay the price.”

It wasn’t praise, not even close, but Blaine would take it. He let out a content breath and allowed his muscles to relax. He wanted to ask what time it was, for the sun wasn’t visible overhead. He guessed it was already well passed noon. Blaine hoped he’d be given an hour or two more to rest, for he still felt weary, but he doubted Khelehkurt would be so patient. The elf was stiffly poking at the fire once more, looking terribly unamused. Of all the elves to save him, Blaine wished it hadn’t been Kurt. He didn’t know him well—Kurt tended to keep to himself, apart from councils with the other lords and an occasional evening playing his harp in the hall. Despite Kurt’s slender appearance, Blaine knew the elf was old, and strong, maybe stronger than any in Rivendell save Glorfindel and Elrond themselves. He should probably be grateful to have had such an able protector. But with such strength can come vanity, or disdain, and from what Blaine knew of him Kurt possessed both in ample quantity.

Blaine adjusted himself where he lay, trying to find a smoother surface on which to rest his right shoulder. It was aching in the place the rider had touched him, as though its grip had left a frozen echo in Blaine’s flesh. He shivered at the memory. He supposed Kurt was right that he’d had no business riding off on his own, and it seemed his presence could have proved more hazardous than he’d realized. Still, no harm had come to him, and though he expected another lecture from Elrond when they arrived home, all in all Blaine figured he hadn’t done that badly for himself. At the very least he’d proven something of his bravery by following those awful cries into the valley and trying to take the rider down. Once they all got over their anger, it might still be enough to convince the Elf-lords he was old enough to set out on actual missions, of one kind or another.

He lay still a while longer, pondering all these things, until he heard a rummaging of items across the fire. Kurt stood and walked to Blaine, offering him a dry chunk of bread, and a little cheese. Blaine propped himself up to eat. There was some water left in his flask, which he drank eagerly. Neither of them spoke. After he had eaten, Kurt asked if Blaine was well enough to ride. A thin orange light was splintering through the trees behind them, and Blaine guessed it was already nearing sunset. He’d slept the entire day. Embarrassed, he nodded and struggled to his feet.

It was slow going. They had left the pine forest while he slept, and the trees were different here, shod in rough bark with parched leaves that chattered dully as they passed. Beneath them the brambles were thick. It was a comfort to be back on Aranna, though, and if she begrudged him the terror of the night before she did not show it.

Within an hour the last of the sunlight dipped away to the west. Clouds hung heavy above them, and there were no stars. Blaine let his wounded arm rest limp in his lap, but the pain grew steadily as they rode, and despite the day of rest his head began to bounce sleepily once more, until he feared he would have to ask Kurt to stop.

In the end he did not have to admit his weakness. After an hour more they rounded a bend and came across a slender cluster of saplings circling a small dell. The shadowed grass within looked clean, and soft. Khelehkurt drew his horse Linuial to a stop and leapt gracefully to the ground. “We will sleep here,” he said. “I suppose there is no real reason to rush, now.” Despite Kurt’s tone Blaine was grateful. It was all he could do to stumble off his horse and pat down a patch of grass before he drifted into a heavy slumber.

The following morning Blaine awoke with renewed energy, but it was quenched almost as soon as he saw Kurt’s eyes. Blaine had long ago decided there were two types of elves: those who were merry and joyful, as though filled with eternal youth, and those who were bloody miserable. The day passed in tedious silence. Line upon line of brown-leafed trees knotted before them, dispersed here and there by dark evergreens with low branches. It was slow going, and Blaine wished for some other companionship. It had been adventurous ridding through the trees alone just a few days before, but Kurt’s foul mood seemed to settle into the woods all around him, making the journey dreary and bored. The clouds were heavy, but the rain held until nightfall. Then, after a quiet meal Kurt built another fire, and Blaine huddled close to it in the downpour, trying to warm the cold ache of his shoulder, and eventually passing into a troubled sleep.

If it were possible, the next day Kurt’s mood seemed to have grown worse. He looked anxious, urging Linuial ever faster and letting out audible sighs of displeasure any time Blaine began to fall behind. For his part, Blaine was determined to prove he was well again, keeping up as best he could and refusing to ask for breaks, even as the bruising in his shoulder began to throb. The rain had passed, but the clouds did not clear.

After the noon meal (bread and a bit of smoked meat eaten on horseback) they finally left the trees. Blaine thought he could hear the distant rolling of great rapids. He called ahead to Kurt asking if it was the Bruinen, but the elf just quickened his pace. When they came to the river, though, Blaine recognized the ford of Bruinen clearly, brimming higher than usual for autumn, marking the western boundary of Elrond’s land. An uneasiness he had not felt since Khelehkurt’s lecture began to wind in Blaine’s belly. If the halflings had not yet made it to Rivendell, and it was found Khelehkurt had been detained, Blaine might be in more trouble than he wanted to consider.

Without hesitation Kurt plowed through the river and led them into the open country beyond. A few stunted evergreens sprang up here and there, but about them the land was quiet. They carried on at a quick canter until all at once grass became rock and opened into a deep gorge, stretching wide at the base and crowded with trees. They had reached the road to the hidden valley.

They went single file, for the road wound narrowly down the cliff face and between many terraces of sod and trees. The air became lighter as they descended, sweet with grass and torn leaves, and about them the evergreens yielded to great oaks and sprawling beeches with flurries of yellow leaves still clinging to their branches. Blaine heard the roar of the falls rush to meet him on a warm breeze. Across the valley lanterns were being lit in the Halls of Elrond, Last Homely House East of the Sea.

The horses were brought to the stable and left in Pengon’s care. Blaine saw faces eyeing them curiously from a few windows, but the path back to the main entrance was deserted. When they entered the front hall, Kurt spun to look at Blaine, raising a thin elven finger in warning. “Wait here,” he commanded. It was the first time he’d spoken since morning. Blaine nodded and slumped back against the wall as Kurt rushed off toward the council chamber.

It seemed like ages before Kurt returned. Blaine sat on the white stone tiles, drawing his knees against his chest and trying to decide what he would say to Lord Elrond—a difficult task since there was obviously nothing to be said. Every few minutes some pair or group of elves passed by, many lighting up when they saw him, then quickly glancing away. No one tried to speak to him. It was not an encouraging sign.

Finally Khelehkurt rounded the corner once more and Blaine scrambled to his feet. Elrond was not with him, but Kurt’s expression looked softer than it had. “The halflings have arrived,” said the elf. “The great peril was averted, but one was wounded, and Elrond still tends him. Go and keep out of the way, Blaine. Elrond will find you when, one way or the other, this business comes to its end.”

Blaine nodded. It had not been a lecture. In fact, everything seemed to have come together well. The halflings were here, three arriving unhurt and the last tended by Elrond himself. It began to seem that a single lost knife was all the harm that had come from Blaine’s expedition.

Kurt turned back the way he’d come, cloak billowing behind him as he went. Before rounding the corner, though, he looked back as though remembering some final taxing thought. “Blaine, be assured Elrond will have words with you about all this. And when he does, would you at least _try_ to show him a little more courtesy than you showed me?”

A click of his heel and Kurt was around the corner and out of sight. Blaine’s cheering mood all but vanished. Elrond could be truly terrifying when he meant to be, but Blaine respected him immensely. And Elrond had certainly taken a good deal more interest in Blaine over the years than _Kurt_ ever had. To have the near stranger tell him how to treat their leader was wildly presumptuous. Blaine gathered up his things in a sour mood. If he hadn’t wanted out of Rivendell badly enough before, having Khelehkurt here to insult him certainly wouldn’t tempt him to stay.

*     *     *

The next day passed peacefully enough. Just being in the valley seemed to heal his shoulder, and soon it felt warm, as if no darkness had ever touched it. A stillness lay upon the house. The elves seemed tense for the last of the hobbits to be healed, and Blaine had perhaps underestimated the severity of his wounds. He took his meals alone in his room, and to his comfort did not see or hear from Khelehkurt.

The following morning, though, Blaine woke to the ringing of bells. The last of the hobbits was healed, and there was to be a great victory feast. Blaine was thrilled, both for the rise in spirits and because this meant his own culpability in all this was past fear. He spent the afternoon helping Duneth and Naurwë in the kitchens, and to his delight when he went to the garden to gather sage he spotted Aragorn in the valley, walking with the lady Arwen between the trees. He could not interrupt, but he wished for a chance to greet him.

He had only spoken with Aragorn once, some years ago, but the ranger had been kind, and left a deep mark on Blaine’s heart. He had come to Blaine at his table in the hall, leaving Arwen’s side to sit with him, and asked him all he had to tell of life in the valley. Looking back Blaine knew it had been an undo courtesy, but at the time he had felt very important, telling Aragorn about his lessons in letters and in riding and swordplay. Aragorn had praised his ambition, and promised him a place worthy of his skill in the ranks of rangers when the time came. Blaine knew now that Aragorn had also been a young mortal raised among the elves, and he had emerged strong, and proud, even wooing Elrond’s daughter though she was fairest among all elven maidens of the earth. He was the rightful king of men, in the north and the south, though no one had sat upon the throne for many generations. Blaine could not help but hope that the throne might be reclaimed in Aragorn’s lifetime, for Blaine knew he would gladly follow the man to battle. While he watched, though, the couple strayed from view, and in the kitchens there was still much to be done.

The food was prepared: dishes of steaming meats and fresh, green vegetables. There were cakes, both seedy and sweet, and the last of the summer corn had been brought in from the gardens. Blaine helped set out the plates, and was lighting a low row of candles across the center of the high table, when he glanced up to see lord Elrond standing with a few others across the room, his eyes fixed grimly on Blaine. Blaine swallowed. He continued lighting the last of the candles and then stood waiting awkwardly as Elrond approached.

“Sit,” the elf commanded.

Blaine obeyed, perching on the edge of the wooden bench and waiting. Elrond swept his robe aside and lowered himself into the opposite chair, folding his hands on the table between them. Blaine was suddenly not sure where to look. Elrond cleared his throat.

“You know that I have been told the story in full.”

Blaine nodded, eyes finally landing on the flourish of red embroidery circling the Elf-lord’s wrists.

“And by now you have also realized that what you did was impermissible.” He emphasized each syllable of the final word, and Blaine could feel the grey eyes boring into him.

“Yes. Of course. I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t realize.”

“I know,” Elrond answered. “That, however, is no excuse. You have meddled in affairs not only beyond your own skill, but perhaps beyond all of ours. You have heard of the dark lord Sauron, the enemy rising in Mordor?” Blaine nodded, shuddering instinctively at the name. He felt very cold. “Even as we speak he is putting forth all his strength, son of Andros. Those were among his most powerful servants you clambered off to meet. Indeed, so powerful that few in Rivendell— _least of all you_ —were strong enough to ride against them. If Khelehkurt had not come upon you in the very nick of time, and revealed himself to them in his true strength, you would surely be dead now. Or worse.”

His hands separated. Blaine glanced up and Elrond leaned forward to catch his eye. Blaine felt terribly naked in front of him, but knew he should not look away. “I know that you are eager to prove yourself, Blaine. But you are a child of the valley. You hear tales, but you cannot truly know how dangerous the world is, beyond these borders. War brews in the south as has not come upon us for an age. Even here in the north I sense dark things waking once more, deep in the mountains of Angmar, and off in the Breeland downs. You are very dear to me, Blaine. To all of us here. You must trust us to keep you safe.”

Blaine swallowed. He could not argue with anything Elrond had said. And yet the same questions as always were rising inside of him yet again. When would he be old enough to at least try to find a place for himself here? Or if there was to be no place, might he not instead leave to join the rangers, and learn to patrol the wild with his own kind. It was not _right_ for a man to live dormant among elves, doomed to watch the world passing all around him. There must be a way to make Elrond understand. All at once he heard himself say, “I faced a rider. I did it all wrong, but I actually did it.”

It had come out much more childish than he intended. He looked down quickly, face growing hot, but when Elrond spoke he was surprised to hear the elf was smiling. “That you did, boy. That you did. And you are right. It was as much ignorance as bravery, but it was still more than many men could manage, in the terror of the moment.” From the spire above them the bells began to ring. Elrond stood, then, and stepped out from his chair. He was dreadfully tall. He remained still for a moment, regarding Blaine carefully. “Perhaps someday soon, there will be a quest more fitting to your skills. Until then, however—”

“We won’t have to have this talk again,” Blaine promised quickly. The bench scraped loudly on the tile as he stood.

With a nod Elrond dismissed him, moving to take his own chair at the head of the table. Blaine rounded the table and stepped down from the dias, a cold wave of relief swelling over him. That had not gone too badly. In fact, it was more than he had hoped for. Elrond had complimented his bravery, and promised that soon there might be a quest for him. Perhaps despite everything, his adventure in the forest had actually done some good.

He smiled at the thought, glancing over the hall, only to notice Khelehkurt standing near the entranceway and staring directly at him. As their eyes met a look of disgust crossed the elf’s face. Blaine’s smile vanished. He could tell Kurt had been watching their conversation. Had he heard what was said? Clearly he believed Elrond had been too gentle with him. Well, thankfully that was not Khelehkurt’s judgement to make.

*     *     *

There are many feasts in Rivendell and all of them merry, but few could compare to the victory meals, when all the lords assemble together in their dignity. There were many strange faces at the banquet that evening, several elves Blaine hadn’t seen before, messengers from Círdan in the harbor, he was told, and others from Thranduil’s realm in Mirkwood. A few dwarves were also gathered together, richly adorned in crisp robes and golden ornaments, but still managing to look quite out of place. Blaine quickly spotted the four halflings, one seated at Elrond’s table, and the others sat not far away, all of them feasting merrily.

At the high table sat Elrond, with Glorfindel on his right, and the wizard Gandalf on his left, whose name was often spoken in the valley though Blaine had only seen him twice before. Together in the candlelight the three of them looked ageless and noble, like great warriors stepped out from ancient songs. To Glorfindel’s right was lord Khelehkurt, and the final rays of daylight washed warm across his face, but his eyes shone a cool blue, mirroring the twilight and silver of his robes. Blaine couldn’t help but admit that tonight, even among so many great lords, Kurt’s dignity was beyond compare. Glorfindel, though, held the seat of honor. Blaine wondered guiltily if that was at least partly his own fault.

“Where do your thoughts carry you, little Timlin?”

Blaine smiled at the nickname. It meant ‘Little Song’, and though at times he wished he’d outgrow it, from Lindir it always sounded kind. The elf was grinning merrily beside him, pouring a second glass of wine.

“Nowhere special,” replied Blaine, shifting his focus away from the high table. “Mostly I was hoping someone would tell me what happened.”

“Ah!” laughed the elf, “Could it be that in running off to have an adventure you’ve gone and missed all the excitement?”

Blaine smiled and tore another mouthful of bread from his roll. In the busyness of the day and his preoccupation with his own ordeal, Blaine hadn’t quite pieced together the whole story yet. Anyway, Lindir was always the best for learning news. It was him that had told Blaine about the black riders in the first place.

“Glorfindel found the hobbits not far from the river. He and Aragorn led them to the ford, but the riders came upon them. Frodo, that’s him over there,” Lindir pointed to the dark-haired halfling at the high table, “was on horseback, and he crossed the river with all nine wraiths on his heels! But Elrond sent down a great flood from the mountains, and the others hedged them against the river, until all the riders were washed away. It was a risky business, but all’s come together better than Elrond hoped, I think. Glorfindel and Aragorn, and Frodo too, are to be praised! I began writing the song of it yesterday, in fact, though I’m still trying to get all the details out of Aragorn. But why don’t you join me! It could use a lute part, if you’re up for it.”

Lindir lifted his glass in a solitary toast and brought it to his lips. Blaine looked back to the high table. No wonder Khelehkurt had been so displeased. Already the minstrels were writing songs about the downfall of the riders, but he would have no part in them.

Blaine turned back to Lindir, to find the elf watching him carefully. “Was he very angry?”

“Yes,” Blaine answered honestly. “He hardly spoke to me for two days.”

Lindir smiled. “You have realized what the name Khelehkurt means, haven’t you? ‘Cut from the Ice’?”

Blaine laughed and reached for his own glass. “It certainly suits him.”

They both drank, and Lindir’s voice grew softer. “It can be hard for elves, you know, living among mortals. Some find it easier not to get too attached. And Kurt, well. He’s walked this earth for a very long time.”

*     *     *

The following day there was a council, and of course Blaine was not invited. Instead he checked on Aranna, and wandered by the forges when he knew Maethor was at lunch to see if there were any knives alike to the one he’d lost (there weren’t). Now that life was returning to normal, he felt terribly restless. He found himself spending much of the day alone in his room, fiddling with his lute and peering out the window distractedly. Autumn in Rivendell was beyond compare, the whole of the valley, from river to leaf-fall, alive with swirling downward motion. Yet Blaine’s mind kept wandering to that night alone in the forest, how his heart had raced as he’d snuck down the slate bank, and the feel of his sword in his hand when he’d drawn it to charge, before everything went wrong.

Dinner that night was less merry. A decision had been made, something about the hobbit Frodo setting off with a weapon to fight the great enemy, and now scouts were to be sent in all directions. Blaine wished to be among them, but knew he could not ask. The firehall was alive with activity that night, and once the banquet was cleared Blaine wandered down to join the others in their music and singing. Lindir had some new verses he wanted Blaine to learn, a song about the coming of Fingolfin in the days of old, and Blaine was eager to join. When he arrived, however, his eyes immediately fell on Kurt seated with his back to the fire, an elaborate wooden harp resting between his legs. Lindir was next to him, singing along to a tune Blaine did not recognize. From across the room Kurt’s eyes fell on him, and immediately narrowed, as though in some juvenile dare. Blaine waited until Kurt had looked away before stepping back and closing the door behind him. He decided he would prefer to spend the evening alone in his chamber.

The next morning the scouts departed. Blaine was relieved to see Khelehkurt was among them.

*     *     *

Day followed day, and a cold wind began to blow from the north. Autumn gave way to a crisp December before, one by one, the scouts returned. Blaine took to spending his days on the high patio above the Bruinen, sometimes reading, or singing old scraps of songs, with an eye always fixed on the road to the valley. It was a grey evening when he spotted Linuial trotting down the path, Khelehkurt bent wearily on her back.

Winter came at last, and snow began to fall in Imladris. Shortly after the solstice the company of hobbits set out, along with five others, Aragorn and the wizard with them. Things grew quieter, after that. On long nights they feasted, but many evenings the firehall rested empty, and cares did not fall away as easily as before. Often, Kurt would join with Elrond in the library or the council chambers, or Blaine would see them walking together along the snowy trails torchless under the stars and deep in council. Blaine grew uneasy with the passing days. All around them tension was growing. Something was about to happen, and Blaine no longer felt like the only one in Rivendell wishing to be of use.

Then, one cool blue morning, a rider on a white horse came down the valley trail. His hair was long, and silver, and his breast bore the crest of Lothlorien. Blaine ran down the long corridor from his room, and reached the gates just as Elrond and the others were arriving. 

“The king rides to war!” cried the elven rider, leaping from his steed and standing golden in the sun. “He summons the rangers of the north to ride with him! Send messengers into Arnor, gather all the grey men of the wild! The king of the Dúnedain will come into his throne!”

Blaine stared in awe, as the elf towered before him in the sunlight. The time had come at last. His people would regain their place, the realm of men would rise once more across the earth. A great wonder or courage began to blaze within him. “I will go!” He exclaimed.

A dozen pairs of eyes spun to stare at him.

His blood was pumping. This was his moment and he would not let it pass him by. “I am a child of Númenor, the son of a ranger. My king has called. I will go to war.”

“You will not!” It was Khelehkurt, pushing in front of Elrond and staring Blaine down with ice blue eyes. “I did not watch you nearly kill yourself four months ago to let you ride off again, headlong into a battlefield. Elrond,” he turned to face the other, who was eyeing Blaine curiously, “as the only one among this company who has seen the boy face any sort of combat, I must advise against this. It will be his death, and you know full well that when Aragorn summoned warriors from the north, _this_ ,” he motioned vaguely to where Blaine stood, “was not what he had in mind.”

“Be still Khelehkurt,” said Elrond gently. He stepped toward Blaine, regarding him carefully. “I can see your heart, son of Andros, and it is pure. Yet I’m afraid my counselor may be right. You are not yet tested in battle, and it is many days to the fields of Gondor. I do not believe that this journey is of your merit.”

“But you promised!” Blaine realized it was childish, and yet the words were true. “When you heard that I faced a nazgul without fear, you promised that soon I would be allowed to take a real quest. My king calls! What task could possibly be more important?”

“I said we would find a quest more fitting to your skill, not that you might take on any challenge you fancied.” He sighed. “Once more, Blaine, I must ask you to trust me. It was prophesied that a light shines upon your future, but I do not see that light resting in wars to the south. Such a path will almost certainly be your doom. You are young, though I know you hate to hear it, and untested. This is my final word: you will not go to war.”

Blaine’s heart was in free-fall. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. His king called. He needed to obey Aragorn, permission from the elves or no. He needed to find a way to get away. “Then let me bear the summons.”

Elrond considered this carefully. “It is many days journey, to the ranger camps of Arnor. There is much need of haste.”

“Sir, it is my blood, my kin. The coming war threatens us all. Let me take at least this small part in it. I want to be of use, to test my skill, to learn.”

Elrond pierced him with a keen eye. “Nay, you desire to undertake great deeds and prove your name. Do not look at me like that, Blaine, there are worse aims to seek. Want of glory need not be an evil, unless it tempt you from the honorable path. Perhaps carrying a message to your people would be a fitting task for you.”

“Elrond,” interjected Kurt, “You cannot be considering this. The need for haste is too great. The boy has no hope of keeping up with elves in the wild.”

Lord Elrond did not respond, only continuing to regard Blaine thoughtfully, so Blaine spoke up, trying tone keep his tone steady. “Please. All my life I have heard tales of great deeds long ago, of my kin keeping peace in the north. And now I hear that battle’s soon upon us. Am I to be locked in this fortress forever, of use to none, until the evil presses at our gates? All my life you have told me I have the blood of Númenor in my veins, that a light rests upon my future. Let me meet that future. I am not afraid.”

“You should be afraid,” said Elrond, yet his gaze became more gentle. “But who am I to scold youth for being young, or inexperience for not having been tested. You may undertake this journey. But mind these words, Blaine: You are to be a messenger to the north, not a soldier to the south. As soon as the message is sent you are to return to Rivendell once more.”

“Elrond, blood or no the child has no hope of finding the ranger camps alone.”

“No, indeed he does not, Khelehkurt. Which is why I wish for you to go with him.”

Kurt’s mouth fell open.

“Of course, Elladan and Elrohir will have to ride as well. They can seek Halbarad at the far western camps. And you and young Blaine can go north, to Finngard’s camp beyond the Hoarwell.” Elrond regarded Kurt’s still-parted lips and smiled. “Well, you seem to have a keen knowledge of the boy’s limitations. Who better could there be to teach him?”

Kurt closed his lips. He nodded to Elrond, but eyed Blaine with frustration.

“Then it is settled,” pronounced Elrond. He turned back to Blaine, a glimmer in his eye. “You must make ready to leave at once, and for as long as you are in the wild you are not to leave lord Khelehkurt’s side. Those are my terms. Do you agree to them?”

“Yes.” Blaine was already stepping backwards toward the house. “I shan’t be ten minutes! I’ve been packed for weeks.”

At that Kurt threw his head back in despair but Elrond chuckled. “I do not know what this journey shall come to,” he said, “but I expect it will be a turning point for Blaine. And it may be, Kurt, that you find a turning of your own. Ride swiftly now. I await news of your return!”

 

 

 


	3. Edge of the Wild

It was an hour or more before the messengers set out. Blaine’s personal supplies were indeed already packed, and in minutes he was back dressed in a green riding cloak and carrying his sturdy leather pack. Pengon, though, insisted on adding an excess of other items: wool garments, some rope, a fresh flint set, a sturdy bowl that could be placed in fire unharmed. Maethor was indignant when he heard Blaine was not wearing mail, and found for him a small, light shirt. It was surely sized for an elf maiden, for it was very slender, and though it fit across his shoulders it hung far too long below his waist. He was also given a second throwing knife, to replace the one he’d lost. Last of all supplies were brought from the kitchens and divided between all the riders: bread, cheese, smoked meats, and fresh water in new flasks. Elrohir was the last to emerge from the great house, wearing an elegant but worn grey cloak, and resting his left hand on the pommel of his sword.

It was decided that the four riders would set out west along the road together, past the Trollshaws, and then divide at the Hoarwell bridge. Elrond’s sons would take the longer journey, continuing west as far as the Breelands to seek out the small camps along the borders, and then heading north to the post near Annuminas. Khelehkurt and Blaine, meanwhile, would trace the Hoarwell north and then veer off into Eriador to find the larger outpost of Blackstone, which guarded the outskirts of the Ettenmoors and the mountains beyond. The message to all rangers would be the same: rally at the Hoarwell bridge, and on February twenty-fourth ride south with as many as had been mustered. Any who missed the rallying date would have to find their way to Gondor alone—a sobering thought, for even on horseback it could be a journey of several weeks.

Blaine followed the discussion with interest, doing his best to understand the specifics of their mission. He was torn between wanting to prove himself on the journey so that he might return to Rivendell before the twenty-fourth and gain permission to ride to war with the other riders, or simply sneaking off with them in the night and not returning to Rivendell at all. He did not have much hope that Elrond would let him go to war if he came back to ask permission, but perhaps if he could fight some enemy with valor on the road Elrond might be persuaded. In any case, the task at hand was mission enough, for the moment. Even at full strength it would take several days to reach Blackstone, and mustering the rangers if they wandered far afield could take longer still.

Blaine was giddy at the thought of journeying to Blackstone. He had met many rangers, of course, for they were not strangers in Rivendell, but their stays were never long, and usually involved news or councils that had little to do with him. Still, whenever he saw one he was enamored by their grim faces and strong arms. Elves were strong too, and held within them a great power. But the rangers had a power of a different sort, as though not over the land, but from within it, to track and to hunt; their hair and skin was dark, and their eyes were cold, and wisdom always followed in their councils.

At times it was hard for Blaine to picture himself among them. He had the skill, he was sure, or if he did not have it yet he would learn it soon. Abilities always came easily to him, and he knew his speed, balance and endurance must be nearer to those of the ancient men of Númenor than to common folk. But such feats are less impressive in a village of elves, all of them gorgeous and ancient and unstained. Add to this his small stature—compact, to be sure, but short among elves and rangers both—and Blaine felt a little uneasy at the thought of riding to battle with his kindred. It was one thing to be always lesser among the elves, but if he found it true among his own kind that would be a sorer wound to tend.

“Shall you lead the way, Blaine?”

Blaine’s attention snapped over to Kurt. The others were moving to their horses and preparing to make way. By asking if Blaine would ride first Kurt was probably suggesting he rode slower than the others, though whether the elf was making a practical suggestion or simply mocking him Blaine wasn’t sure. Joke or no, the best response was to agree. “With pleasure,” announced Blaine. He crossed the pavilion to where Aranna was tacked and waiting, and climbed to the saddle. Kurt, Elladan, and Elrohir also mounted their horses, though being elfkind each of them rode bareback with their supplies fastened to their own backs.

By now a great host of elves had gathered to see them off. It was not unusual for comings and goings to be well attended, but today’s crowd seemed beyond the status of the occasion. Blaine could feel undue attention in the air, and was quite certain he was the cause of it. He glanced from face to face doing his best to appear indifferent. Lindir had pushed to the front of the group and was smiling at him merrily. Duneth and Naurwë were lingering by the door, come up from the kitchens to see him off. Naurwë’s expression was motherly, and she wrung her hands absentmindedly in front of her. Even Elladan and Elrohir were regarding him from the corner of their eyes. Only Khelehkurt looked unaffected. Blaine had always loved being the center of attention, but this was quickly becoming far too much. He was eager to be gone.

Then Elrond spoke: “Make haste! This day shall be remembered in the annuls of the future king: His people are summoned, the white tree shall take flower and the throne of Gondor be at last renewed! Fare thee well!”

With a cry the riders set off. Blaine readily took the lead, urging Aranna to a fast gallop and glancing back to confirm the others were matching it comfortably. The horses followed single file, one by one crossing the old stone bridge and climbing the road from the valley. At the top of the bluff Blaine looked back and saw the house of Elrond, small as a child’s toy in the sunlight. Then the cleft of rock shielded his view, and the valley was left behind. He felt a stab of something sad. It was a far different sense than when he snuck away alone the last time. Already he felt older. He couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before he looked on the valley again, and whether he might be changed when he did.

The ride to the ford was faster with full bellies and rested horses. They cleared the river in a great slap of hooves on rock, and without slowing carried on along the Great East Road. After just a few hours Blaine spotted the place that he and Kurt had left the Trollshaws, but today’s route would not lead them into the forest. Rather, they followed the open road west, and on their right the trees overhung the trail with great leaning boughs, but on the left the trees thinned, and at times Blaine could see between them a great sea of rolling hills, each crested with brown grass, and glittering frost. Blaine smiled at the realization that already he was travelling farther afield than he had journeyed since his infancy.

As the afternoon lengthened, though, the trip began to take on a more arduous character. Blaine had thought his weariness on the last adventure had come from stress and injury, but he soon learned that he was simply no match for elven riders. The horses were all touched by the blessing of Rivendell, and could sprint for many miles before tiring. But while Blaine had often spent entire days on horseback exploring the valley and the edges of the lands above, he had rarely carried steady at such a pace for so long. He let himself twist minutely in the saddle, trying to unravel the clenching in his thighs. His lower back was beginning to ache with the constant pounding of Aranna’s hooves, and he wished he could stop or even slow for a minute or two to stretch.

“Do not tell me your strength is already fading, Ranger of the North!” Kurt’s horse appeared on Blaine’s right, and the elf’s smile was smug, though not cruel.

“Men may grow uncomfortable faster than elves, but that doesn’t mean we can’t push on,” answered Blaine, raising his voice to be heard above the rush of hooves and wind. He grinned over at Kurt. “I can easily ride until nightfall without pause.”

“Ah!” Kurt replied, his eyes glimmering, “but we will not be stopping at nightfall! There is far to go, and elves need little time for rest.”

Blaine didn’t let his smile fall, but he felt nervous as he returned his eyes to the road ahead. He didn’t have to outlast the elves, he reminded himself, only the horses. Sooner or later they would need relief. He only needed to ride steady until then.

‘Then’ was indeed after nightfall. The sun had set, and the waning moon risen pale in the sky before Elladan called ahead for Blaine to slow.

“There is a place ahead with a little water. The horses can rest there a few hours. And Blaine I am sure you are in need of rest as well.”

Blaine nodded gratefully, slowing Aranna to a trot and falling back, to let the others lead the way off the road. Sure enough, before long they came to a tiny creek winding lazily west toward the Mitheithel. A soft line of trees draped along its banks, bare branches dangling low to touch the water.

As soon as Elladan stepped down from his horse Blaine jumped from his saddle and stretched luxuriously.

“It was a good ride,” Elladan told him, smiling broadly. “You’ve done very well Blaine. Have some food, and sleep a little if you’d like. We shan’t set out until the star Elemmírë rises.”

Blaine beamed at the praise. He walked to and fro a little, stretching onto his toes, and eventually lowered himself flat on the ground, arms spread outward. Now that his blood was remembering to flow again he didn’t feel tired in the least. He was content to lie still, staring at the stars and listening to the others as they talked softly in their musical voices.

“Do you think we’ll reach the bridge by daybreak?” Kurt asked.

“Yes, or shortly after. Elrohir and I should be able to ride to Amon Sûl at least, before nightfall. Then we will give the horses a proper rest. I expect we can make the camps by the nineteenth, if we are not interrupted.

“I can only hope Blackstone will be reached as quickly.”

“I do not believe you will have much trouble,” Elladan said. “Blaine rode well today. I expect the Blackstone rangers will meet the rendezvous ahead of our own.”

“We shall see,” replied Kurt, but his tone was gentle.

Blaine beamed at that. Already he was proving himself. He would prove better still, when they set off again. He breathed contentedly and let his eyes close. He was hungry, but for now moving did not seem worth the effort. A deep, melodic hum broke out from where the elves sat nearby. It was Elrohir, Blaine could tell because the voice was low, ancient and musical. He let his mind drift listening to the melody form. Leave it to elves, after a long ride, to desire music more than food or sleep. The hum broke into a soft chanting and Blaine recognized it as _I-‘wathrad Balannor_ , a lament occasionally sung in Elrond’s halls. There was a whisper of rustling grass and then a harmony began to stretch out over the meadow, mingling with the trickle of the creek. It was not a voice, but a flutter of strings, floating clear and high above Elrohir’s haunting lyrics.

Blaine raised his head and looked over. From his bag Kurt had drawn a harp—not the large and elaborately carved instrument which he kept in the fire hall, but a thin, delicate sweep of wood crossed by many strings. It seemed beneath his fingers like a sapling bending in the breeze, and Kurt’s eyes were closed as he played.

Blaine lay back and shut his eyes again, listening as the music lulled over him, melancholy and pure. And as it blended with the water, and the wind through the grass, he found himself wandering into a fair dream, as out of times long ago. A green plain stretched before him, and beyond it great white peaks flashed with the brilliance of many stars, but behind him the thrummed the unending sway of the sea.

“Come Blaine.”

He opened his eyes to Kurt, bent over him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Elemmírë has risen. We must make way.”

It was still dark. Blaine rose to his feet, doing his best to shake the sleep from him as quickly as he was able. He wasn’t sure how long it had been. In Kurt’s outstretched hand was a slice of smoked rabbit and an apple, and Blaine’s thoughts returned to the morning of bread and cheese those months ago. Blaine thought he could see the recollection on Kurt’s face as well.

He ate. The horses were awake and ready, and in minutes he was back on Aranna’s back, finishing the last of his apple as the swift rock of hooves began to beat again beneath him. The first hint of dawn was already hanging high in the air, and Blaine wondered if they had let him sleep longer than they’d planned, but the sun had not yet risen above the low line of the Misty Mountains behind them. Along the road the last of winter’s snow still clung in the shade of many trees, and the morning air was weighty with a silent cold. His leather gloves did little to warm him, and the wind against his nose and cheeks prickled painfully.

Now Kurt led the way, with Blaine determined to keep close behind. They rode for hours, and the pain in his thighs and back returned quickly. His head felt light as it bounced with Aranna’s strides, and he knew his knuckles were white beneath the gloves.

The sun had risen above the mountains and was already moving to its apex before they reached the River Hoarwell. Here they were due to part ways. After crossing the bridge they stopped for a few minutes to water the horses, and all of them ate. Elrohir had brought a little wine, which he passed between them. The warmth was energizing in Blaine’s throat.

“Farewell, Timlin,” Elrohir said, as he moved to mount his horse again. “I expect we shall meet again on the twenty-fourth, when the rangers muster to ride to war. And after they have left the four of us will ride back to Rivendell together. It will be a joy to journey with you at a more leisurely pace. There are many stories we might tell you about the lands we have just passed, and the great adventures of years gone by. And I look forward to informing my father how admirably you have ridden. As well as any elf of your age, I would say. Would you not, brother?”

“I would,” Elladan echoed, smiling youthfully and realighting onto his steed. “Rivendell is lucky to have such a ranger in their midst. I believe today will mark the start of many adventures and great deeds, little one.”

“Thank you,” Blaine answered, grinning and bowing low before climbing onto his horse as well.

“Alright,” said Kurt, “now stop your flattering, or you’ll swell the boys head to bursting before we’ve even begun. Farewell, Elladan, Elrohir. We will meet again before ere long!” With that he called to his own steed Linuial, and was off north along the river’s western bank. With a quick wave to the others Blaine followed. A moment later he looked back to see the elven brothers already veering out of sight between the trees, carrying west along the road. He and Kurt were alone in the wild once more.

Despite the rougher terrain now that the road was left behind, Blaine couldn’t help but feel Kurt was leading them faster than they had gone before. Aranna ran gracefully, though, and he was in high spirits given the praise of Elrond’s sons. He knew such kind words were common, in Rivendell. The elves had always taken an interest in his ways, and beamed at his successes. They never seemed to expect much of him, so even the smallest triumphs warranted great laughter and praise. It was a pleasant enough way to grow, when the low expectations weren’t keeping him cloistered and bored. But these particular words rang truer. He was on an errand with elven lords, and he knew he was doing well. His body felt strong, and the aching muscles seemed to amplify its strength. What’s more, even Kurt’s grim demeanor had seemed softer, this morning. Today was a good day.

They were leaving the last of the trees. Before them a great expanse of brown grass and low weathered shrubs stretched off into the distance. The Mitheithel, called Hoarwell in the common tongue, bubbled heartily to their right, drawing the first melt of the Misty Mountains off southwest to the sea. Here in the wild, spring was not yet touching the earth as it had in Rivendell. The sun above was small, and pale, and even in afternoon frost still clung to the flora, and bits of snow lingered between dips in the soil and at the bases of the rocks. Rugged crests and embankments rose up all about them, sharp but never high, and at their peaks the dying mosses peeled back to reveal dull grey stones. It was a dreary sort of place, barren and never-ending, and yet looking out across the wide stretch of it Blaine was overcome with a sense of possibility.

Bit by bit the sun passed over, and began to slip away beyond the expanse of hills to the west, and still their pace did not slow. While Blaine wished he might have had a more lively companion, now that Kurt didn’t seem actively angry at him he felt content. Mile after mile Kurt sat tall on his horse, clothed as always in deep blues and pale silvers, yet this time his cloak was simple, and hearty. His light hair tore through the air behind him as he rode, not the bright gold of Glorfindel’s, but a darker yellow, like dusk on the sand, or ripe wheat fields in harvest. Blaine loved watching the elf on his night-black horse riding through the barren lands. He felt he was a spectator in one of the great tales long ago, following an elven prince on some grand mission with the wild world all about, and dangerous. And really, it was not far from the truth. It was a simple duty to play scout or messenger, but despite their task Kurt was certainly a grand lord among elves, and out here there was no knowing if some unexpected adventure might find them.

At last day ended. Moonlight rippled cold across the grasses, and Linuial’s hoof beats slowed. Blaine followed Kurt’s lead, riding at a trot to the river and climbing down while Aranna drank from the still pools on its edge. “I wouldn’t argue with a bite to eat,” he told Kurt, “before we carry on.”

Kurt glanced over and a thrill ran through Blaine when he saw the elf was impressed. “A meal is in order, but I do not think we need to carry on any further today. You and the horses will all ride better with a real night’s rest, and we have made excellent ground.” He gestured off across the Hoarwell to where the Misty Mountains could still be seen, a low, black fringe upon the dark horizon. They appeared smaller and more distant than Blaine had ever seen them. “That peak is Ered Alagos, though you could hardly tell from here its grandeur. But it lies some twenty miles north of Rivendell, and already we are almost due west from it. At this rate we will arrive at the camp in three days without issue.” He smiled at Blaine encouragingly, then raised his eyebrows. “Well? What are you waiting for? Find some sticks and we’ll have a real fire, tonight, and something warm for supper.”

“Of course,” Blaine said, grinning excitedly. If Kurt decided to be kind to him, this journey might be more enjoyable than he’d dared to hope. He dismissed the rumbling in his belly and started searching the surrounding land in the moonlight, gathering loose twigs and combing the shrubs for dry branches he might cut free.

The bundle he returned with was small, much of it still green, and Blaine expected the flames to be meager and smoky, but he found that even among elves Kurt had great skill with fire building. Before long the two of them sat a few feet from one another, tucked in their travelling cloaks and warming their hands on a cheerful orange flame. Along with his bread and meat Kurt had brought a few carrots and potatoes. Blaine fetched him a pot of water and watched hungrily as Kurt produced a little pouch of dried herbs and began to slice and boil a thin stew.

They were quiet while they ate, but it was neither the strained tension of their last trip nor the silent apathy of the previous two days. Rather, Blaine felt wonderfully content. He didn’t know if Kurt had finally seen to forgive him for the incident with the riders, but forgiveness or no Kurt seemed to have moved on and Blaine was happy for it.

“Tell me a story,” said Kurt, as Blaine was finishing the last few mouthfuls of his meal.

“Me?” Blaine asked, surprised.

“Who else could I possibly be speaking to?”

“No, it’s just that you’ve already heard all my stories. Every story I know is told in Rivendell. And the only adventure I’ve had of my own you were actually there for.”

“Hmm,” said the elf. He sat his bowl aside and leaned a little closer to the fire. Blaine was pleased to see his expression was peaceful. “And I don’t imagine I could tempt you to tell it, given the circumstances. Such a shame. It’s been too long since I’ve heard a tale told for the first time.”

Blaine tried not to seem overeager, but now that there was a chance for real conversation his hopes for this trip were growing merrier than he’d imagined. He wanted to keep Kurt talking. “Surely you’ve heard a good share of brand new stories in all the comings and goings these last months.”

Kurt shook his head decisively. “News doesn’t count as storytelling. It’s all trying to guess the future, and deciding who will do what. It’s always full of fears, warranted or no. A good story is about a time that’s already done and over with, and there’s not anything you’re expected to do about it but sit still and enjoy. That’s the kind of story I want.”

“I’m sorry then,” said Blaine, not sure what else he could contribute. “I’d be happy to try and tell you about the Battle of Fornost, or the Fall of Númenor, maybe, but I’m quite certain you could tell either one better than I could.

“That I could. Seeing as I was there for both.” His inflection was biting but Blaine smiled. It seemed a lot of Kurt’s rebuttals were made in fairly good humor, if you could get past his tone.

“Well,” suggested Blaine, “Perhaps you might tell me a story, then. Of some other grand event you had the pleasure of attending, hundreds of years before I was even born.”

“Attending the events that make it into songs is rarely a pleasure.”

“Tell me something happy, then? Something about my own people, perhaps? The men of Númenor?”

Kurt nodded, and to Blaine’s surprise he lay back against the earth, legs still crossed in front of him in the firelight, but face in shadow and fixed on the stars. Blaine had heard the tale of _Akallabêth_ many times: how the great men of the west were tempted by dark powers to seek the immortality of the elves, and in their folly dared to sail to Valinor, the island of the immortal. In retaliation their own island kingdom was plunged into the sea and only a small fleet of the Faithful—the Dúnedain rangers, Blaine’s ancestors—escaped to Middle-earth to establish the realm east of the sea. It was a grand story, mighty and sorrowful, and among Blaine’s favorites. Blaine was surprised, then, that it was not the tale Kurt told.

Instead, he spoke of a grey morning, riding alone on a line of shallow downs, far away in Emyn Beriad near the shores of the sea. There, Kurt himself had come upon the men of Elendil. He described them in detail, noble like young elven warriors, yet sturdy, and dark, carrying great sorrow in their hearts. In the weeks he dwelt among them, Kurt had watched them set the first white stones of Elostirion, the great western tower of the king in Arnor, which would grow to sparkle in sunlight off the water, and its widows would always look west to the land that was lost beneath the waves.

As Kurt spoke, Blaine watched the fire dance and swirl, until the flames thinned to soft lines of smoke trickling from spent embers. Rarely had Blaine heard those mighty years conveyed in so detailed and personal a tale, and he felt a profound gratitude. His mind drifted to early days, the kingdom of men growing stone by stone to rule all the open lands of Middle-earth. Soldiers fending off goblins in the mountains. Harvests and children and green summers and clear pools. His mind wandered through the images until he realized Kurt had been silent for some time. He wished to say something, and yet could not think of what. Instead he lay back, stretching parallel to Kurt but some distance away, and wrapping his cloak about himself. “Goodnight, Blaine son of Andros,” Kurt said softly in the dark.

“Goodnight,” Blaine replied. The last thing he saw before closing his eyes was Elemmírë, trembling high above them. What other great ages of the world might the star have witnessed, Blaine wondered sleepily. For it was older than Elendil, or Khelehkurt, older than all Middle-earth itself. It was a wild thought, and magical, and Blaine’s dreams were filled with white blossoms and a slow, cool twilight.

*     *     *

The magic broke with the first raindrops. Blaine rolled grumbling to tuck his face deeper in his hood, but it was no use. He sat up to see an early haze over the grounds. The air smelled like mud.

Aranna wandering nearby, looking uncommonly bedraggled. Blaine expected she was nearing the end of her enjoyment of the journey, and looking forward to greeting her stables once more. There was a hand on his shoulder and he turned, still half-yawning, to see Kurt holding out bread and apple. He took it in silence, as was their custom, but was pleased to see Kurt smile.

“I won’t be two minutes,” said Blaine, as he struggled to his feet and took his first bite.

“There is no need to rush. The sun is only just rising. Enjoy your food, we’ll set out when you’re ready.”

Blaine smiled gratefully, mouth still full. He refastened his things while he ate, then walked off toward the river to relieve himself and wash his hands and face. The water was ice cold, and there was nowhere to dry his hands.

Despite the rain, their ride was pleasant enough. They went quickly, but not at the unending dash of the previous days. Now and then Kurt would slow to point out some distant peak, or gesture off toward the hazy horizon to their left, and mention some trivia or tale of his time in these lands long ago. Blaine was happy to learn, and told the elf as much. It was a marvelous thing to travel somewhere with real history; in Rivendell there were only endless lists of feasts and names that had passed through in years gone by. Here there had been great battles, when the Witch-king of the north had come upon the three kingdoms of men. Blaine couldn’t help but hope that one day there might be battles here again.

They pushed on all morning and noon had passed before the clouds began to break in narrow patches and the drizzling slowed. Blaine removed his hood. They ate the noon meal while they rode, but Kurt promised tonight they might stop even before nightfall, for he was certain they could reach Blackstone within two days without further trouble.

The day sped on, clouds never fully clearing, and as the sun threatened to set once more the haze of the morning returned. Off ahead were two small hills, neither very high, but both of them rising to sharp points with a few dozen yards of space between. Between them, Blaine thought he spotted a strange grey form. He stared carefully as it grew slowly larger, like a rounded pillar or great mound of stones. Curious, he pushed ahead to Kurt’s side and called out to him.

“Do you see that, up ahead?”

“Yes!” Kurt slowed Linuial a little so he could speak to Blaine more clearly. “It is the base of a statue, I think, for I passed this way many long years ago. Once it signaled some landmark of the border of Rhudaur. These are the lands of your ancestors. They have not always been so barren as they seem today.” 

Blaine stared on in awe. It was away from the river a half mile or so, but now that he knew it was a ruin of Arnor, he wanted desperately to see it. Kurt watched with a smile and seemed happy enough to indulge him. “With those hills for shelter, I’d say it looks like a perfect place to set up camp. Wouldn’t you agree?”

All about a white mist still blurred the margins of their view, but where the stone form waited the air was clear, and cold. As they neared Blaine could see it was indeed a large statue, toppled backwards so the round stone base faced them as they approached. Stretching from the base was the form of a man, pressed halfway long his length into the earth, as though sleeping in a bed of weeds and brambles. It was nearly a dozen yards tall—taller than Blaine would have imagined men could craft in such a place. They rode about it slowly, and when they reached the head Blaine saw the figure was bearded, its cold stone eyes watching him pass forebodingly. “Who is he?” Blaine asked softly.

“A king of Rhudaur, I’d imagine. I could not tell you which, for there have been many since I came to dwell in Rivendell, and few of them memorable.”

Blaine did not reply, still staring awestruck at the stone form. It was not an elegant work, and lacked the finesse of the elves, yet there was something sturdy to it, and a little timeless. In truth it was making him nervous.

Kurt, however, interpreted his silence as contemplation. “Here,” he suggested. “You stay and watch the horses, and go ahead and start your meal. I can look about for some firewood. I think I saw a dead juniper bush off the trail not a minute ago. If we’re lucky we can do without any green wood tonight.”

Blaine nodded, grateful for the courtesy, but in the waning light he felt he might rather not be left alone. Still, they both dismounted, and gathering a few items from his bag Blaine found a bare patch of grass between the statue and the sharp western hill to set up camp. Kurt had strayed from sight behind the opposite hill, and despite the nearby shielding of stone and earth on both sides of him, Blaine felt oddly exposed. It was not unlike the feeling he’d had nearing the black rider’s trail, and the memory of its cry came back sudden and cold in a way he’d rarely remembered while in Rivendell.

He began to nibble at his food as the last of the sunlight faded away. Under the clouds there were no stars. He stared at the statue, thankful that from where he sat the eyes did not feel like they were following him, but the stern line of its bearded jaw provided little comfort. Blaine was not so sure he wanted to make camp here after all.

He finished his meal. There was no sign yet of Kurt. The uneasy stirring in his stomach began to mingle with an irrational excitement. Perhaps the elf had seen something to investigate. Blaine had half a mind to follow, when from the other side of the hill he heard a loud squealing neigh. He leapt to his feet and glanced around him. Aranna stood nearby, but Linuial was nowhere to be seen. With a sudden shock he sprinted off in the direction of the sound, drawing his sword as he ran. As the blade sprung from its sheath he saw something he’d heard mentioned time and again, but had never witnessed with his own eyes: the metal was giving off a pale blue light. There were orcs nearby.

Beyond the hill the night seemed even darker: a great stretch of black swallowing both earth and sky. He could not see the horse. He hurried forward, planting footfalls in the dim light from his sword. Then to his right there was a quick scurry of footsteps. He couldn’t see what it was, but from the sound knew it was neither horse nor elf. With a cry he lunged forward, striking blindly.

It was a mistake.

A sharp pain like raw claws tore along his back. He swung about sword first but the creature had leapt away into the shadows. He could just make out the shape of it, ghastly face and crooked ears, lurking in the black. He shouted again and dove forward, then felt his sword make purchase. There was a loud squeal and the creature hurried away; staining the blue glow of his blade was a long black line of blood. Without a second though Blaine followed after, not caring to muffle his steps. There was a hoot to his left, and then another, further away. A band of goblins, it seemed—not many, but a band of them nonetheless. He ran as quickly as he could manage in the dark, swaying sword to and fro to light his way. Then he saw the orc again, the one he had wounded, staggering forward through the grass. Without a thought he grabbed the knife from his belt, hopped half a rotation back and threw it full force. There was a shrill cry and the creature fell forward in the grass. It did not move again.

He’d hit it! He’d actually killed it! Blaine nearly whooped in pride as he hurried forward to check his quarry and retrieve the knife. He neared cautiously, watching for some trickery, but saw his elven knife faintly glowing from the back of the goblin’s skull. It was surely dead.

He leaned down and grasped the knife hilt, suddenly feeling a little sick. It didn’t budge until he’d braced a boot on the creature’s back, then it slipped out, slick and dripping. He stepped back a little, but his curiosity got the best of him, and he gingerly kicked the creature until it rolled onto its lifeless back. It was clearly a goblin: terribly ugly, with sickened skin and warped features, and yet the eyes were open, and looked oddly human. Blaine had killed it. The idea made him uncomfortable.

Only then did he hear Kurt’s sword. There was another loud squeal followed by an offbeat rhythm of hooves. Somewhere up ahead Linuial was returning to her master. He heard another clash of metal as a third orc apparently went down. It was too black to see what was happening. Were there still more?

“Kurt?” Blaine called. “Kurt? Where are you?” Blaine moved to run toward the sounds, then realized his knife was still dripping in his hand. He knelt to wipe it, oddly captivated by the black lines of blood streaking the grass. There was something profoundly animal about it, the iron scent of the blood, the drive of his own adrenaline. He had made his first kill.

As he knelt, clipping the knife back to his belt, a tall form dashed out of the grasses ahead, blue blade gleaming. Blaine moved to stand, but just then the figure leapt past him—nearly over top of him!—and there was a vicious cry at his back. He turned to see a large goblin, arms outstretched toward him, Kurt’s sword plunged through its chest. Blaine felt too shocked to move.

Already Kurt was gone, making a wide loop of the area. There were no more squeals or sounds. Linuial cantered toward Blaine, and he could see she was limping badly. Slowly Blaine rose to his feet, watching as the dim glow of Kurt’s sword finished its circuit and strode back swiftly toward him.

“What were you thinking!” yelled Kurt. He wiped the sword twice on the ground, plunged it back into the sheath, and drew up to his full height. His hands were fixed on his hips, and his face flooded with a perilous anger. “Tell me!” He stepped closer, and if it were possible his voice rose even louder. “ _Tell me!_ ”

Blaine staggered backward. “I killed an orc.” He felt both scared and confused.

“You _shouted_ , letting ever goblin in two miles know precisely where you were, and then, you _knelt down_ to clean your knife! All this in a live battlefield! Had I been fighting any farther afield that creature,” he pointed sharply at the dead form on the ground, “would have slit your throat before you’d had time to realize he was behind you! That was the most reckless, useless—” he trailed off, turning away from Blaine in disgust and marching to his horse.

Blaine tried to catch his breath. Next to him the corpse of the orc lay collapsed in the grass, a wicked snarl across its face, foul notched knife still in hand. Blaine stared at the knife, picturing it entering his throat. A large clump of bile began to rise to his mouth.

Falling forward he vomited onto the grass. He’d almost died, it was his fault and he’d almost been killed, by a pathetic small orc in the wild, and it was his fault, and Kurt was dreadfully angry, and Kurt was right.

He slumped in the grass a long while, head reeling. Kurt was near him, dragging the orc body away, but the elf still looked livid and would not meet his eye. Kurt had saved his life a second time. From his own foolishness. It took Kurt months to get over the first time. Blaine didn’t even want to think what would happen now. It just—it had all happened so quickly. Killing an orc had been a shock, and he knew Kurt was about, and he’d just thought—well, if he’d thought anything, he would have thought that his part in the battle was over. He was putting his knife away so that he could come and help Kurt. It just—it had all happened so quickly!

It was no excuse.

He knew it, and it was time to admit it.

“I have no excuse,” he said softly.

Kurt surely heard, but he did not acknowledge it. He had piled the bodies in a heap, five, it looked like, and Blaine could spot the one he had killed among them, empty skull lolled back and dripping.

“You saved my life.”

He sat on the grass waiting as Kurt left to fetch the wood he had gathered. Linuial came closer to him, and he could see a cruel gash along her right shoulder. Whether this was the full cause of her limp or if she had also rolled the ankle he wasn’t sure. In either case Kurt would not be able to ride her. Would Kurt have to return to Rivendell while Blaine rode ahead? It was a silly thought, for certainly Kurt would just take Aranna from him, and leave Blaine to make his way back with the wounded horse on foot. This was likely the end of his adventure. He just—he hadn’t realized Linuial wandered off. How could he have known orcs were nearby, this far from the mountains? It was odd, surely. And when he heard the horse was hurt he’d run off at once, without hesitation! Or was that part of his problem. Kurt had come upon the orcs silently, slaying them one by one in the dark. Blaine sighed desperately and let his head fall limp between his knees. It had all been so very, very foolish.


	4. Sent Away

For six days, they did not speak.

The morning following the attack Blaine had woken to an empty campsite. He was gathered and collected before Kurt reappeared. The elf didn’t say where he had gone. Blaine wasn’t sure if he should speak first—he’d vaguely hoped that whatever happened next the camaraderie they’d been slowly building wouldn’t completely vanish. To his disappointment, Kurt’s first words were practically spat at him: “We’re six days from Blackstone by foot. Start walking.”

Blaine offered to ride ahead alone, or to walk Linuial back to Rivendell while Kurt and Aranna carried on, but it was no use. Kurt didn’t trust him to keep himself alive in the wild, certainly not if goblins were wandering so far from the mountains, and after all, Kurt reminded him, Elrond’s orders were that he did not leave Kurt’s side.

So they walked.

It might have made sense to take turns riding Aranna, but Kurt did not suggest it, and Blaine wasn’t about to look weak yet again. He followed on foot, Linuial limping beside Kurt and setting the pace. Kurt had tended her wound to the best of his skill, but healing would take time, and there was no option but to keep walking, one direction or the other. He watched Kurt leading her gently, leaning close now and then to whisper to her or stroke her side. Blaine felt awful. He didn’t know how the horse had wandered out of sight without his noticing. He only hoped there would not be permanent damage. Once they got back to Rivendell she would likely mend well enough, but with the tear aggravated by so many days of travel, Blaine couldn’t help fearing that Kurt may have to find a new riding horse upon their return. Step by step he berated himself. He couldn’t have known there were orcs about. He couldn’t have. But still. He should have done better.

There was snow. They followed the Hoarwell all the first day until it began to bend east. Then they filled their flasks and watered the horses at the river one last time before striking out north-west into the open country. As day stretched into day Blaine felt desperately weary at the tension between himself and Kurt. When they’d first set out from Rivendell he’d been happy enough at the silence between them. It had been comfortable. Now, though, it stretched out into the wide lands about them, and the constant shame was gnawing at him to find some way to make things right. He couldn’t speak to the elf; it seemed better to let him cool off on his own time. But his mind returned often to the night around the fire when Kurt had told him stories of long ago, in his pure elven voice. Blaine had been quite looking forward to a second night of storytelling, before Linuial wandered off and everything went wrong. He was a little surprised to find how much he missed the company.

On the sixth morning Blaine woke before dawn. He forced himself to stay awake until the sun began to rise. Then, when Kurt began to stir he met him where he lay with bread and cheese in hand. Kurt looked at him curiously and murmured a thank you.

They collected their things quietly, but when they started moving Blaine sensed a little of the tension between them was finally dissipating. The morning mist cleared to reveal a thin blue sky, but it was bitterly cold. Ahead the plains grew more rugged, dipping low into many valleys filled with rough stones, and the snow gathered in a wet skin across the surface of everything. Here and there lines of stone cropped up about them: ruined fences or the bases of homes long ago abandoned. Blaine sensed they were getting close.

A little past midday the land rose at a particularly steep incline, stretching off like the base of a shallow mountain, and threaded with mossy boulders. Kurt’s pace quickened, though the rocks were slick, and Linuial struggled to keep her footing. At last they reached the summit, and all once Blaine saw it: sheer circlets of smoke diluting high into the sky, and beneath them a dark cluster of homes. It was the ranger camp, on a black plateau of earthy rock not far beneath them. Several dozen tiny houses nestled together, some built of thatched wood or stone, but more of them tents of leather or thick cloth. About the whole village was a ring of earth, roughly waist height but with pegs and sharpened bones jutting out from it. It was a dreary place, dark in the lifeless fields, and yet Blaine’s heart soared at the sight of it. These were his people. Perhaps he was coming home.

In front of him Kurt raised the silver horn to his lips and let out a long blast. He glanced back to Blaine, and sighed. “Go ahead, boy. Ride to the camp with your king’s message. There’s no sense waiting for me.”

“Thank you, Kurt. Thanks so much.” Blaine found he was nearly as excited that the time of shunning was ended as he was about reaching their destination. And maybe more than anything he was grateful to have something to _do_. Mounting Aranna he galloped full force toward the village, calling out as he went “Ride, Dúnedain! Ride to Gondor! King Aragorn summons his people! Ride to the south, to war!”

Blaine barreled onto the plateau and circled the outer mound of earth, still shouting the call to battle. On the far side he found a thin gate in the earthen wall and carried through it. Within was a field of mud cluttered with many structures: houses, sheds, and pens. All about there was a commotion: high cries and murmurings as one by one women ran out from their doors. He spotted one or two children among them—a marvel, for Blaine had known no other children in Rivendell. He did not see any of the ranger men. Perhaps they were in some council, or patrolled beyond the grounds during the day. As he moved through the village, all attention seemed drawn to a home near its center. It was a little larger than the others, built on a short circle of stone, with a wooden roof thatched low across it. Blaine dismounted, and everyone around him fell silent. Out of the house a woman emerged, slender with dark brown hair falling down her shoulders. She clutched a shawl about her, and hurried forward, eyes wide. Then a shadow crossed her face and she came to an abrupt stop.

“You are not Halbarad,” the woman said. “Who are you? You are not Halbarad.”

She hunched forward, as though struck with an unseen blow. About Blaine there was whispering, and someone behind him let out a desperate sob.

“I come from Rivendell,” Blaine said carefully. “King Aragorn summons the rangers to come to war in the south. Who is Halbarad and why do you look for him? Where are the ranger men?”

Before him the woman straightened, setting her shoulders firm and swallowing. “Come,” she motioned him toward her door. “And you can tell me why you are here. Then together we might decide if there is something to be done.” Blaine thought the woman glanced at Aranna as she said it, but she led him into her home.

Inside was a wide round room, with a table and chairs on one side and bed on the other. It was dimly lit, but to their left a warm fire was burning. There were no windows. “Remove your riding things, you must be cold. Do you need food, or drink?” The woman went to a cupboard near the woodstove and fetched a dark loaf and two wooden plates. She sat at the table and indicated for him to do likewise. “What is your name, rider from Rivendell? You are no elf.”

“No, though an elf came with me and will arrive at any minute. But I am Blaine, son of Andros and Lalaith.”

At that the woman broke into a broad smile. “You are Blaine! Well of course you are, what other young man would bring messages from Rivendell. But it’s been far too long since we have had any news of you here. You are well met indeed, Blaine. For I am Rachel, daughter of Hiram, whose father was your great-grandmother’s brother, if I’m not mistaken. Which I think makes us cousins, if a little distantly.”

Blaine beamed. “Does it! Well met indeed! Would you believe you’re the first relative I’ve ever encountered?”

Rachel giggled, leaning her elbows onto the table and resting her chin level to him. “I would, being raised by elves. It must be a marvelous thing, and there is much more I wish to know. But tell me, why have you come?”

“Aragorn set off for Gondor many weeks ago. Nine days ago a messenger from Lorien came to Rivendell saying the war of the King has come, and bidding us summon all Rangers of the North to fight for him. Other messengers have journeyed to the Breeland and Evendim camps. Khelehkurt and I have come here, to bid you ride to battle. We were waylaid on the way, but if we hurry the men can still be mustered and perhaps make it to the Hoarwell bridge before the others set off. The king shall be crowned, Rachel. Here in our lifetime! The reign of men will come to Arnor once again.”

Blaine broke into an awestruck smile as he said it, but across from him Rachel only grimaced. Her eyebrows drew together, as though she wrestled with a great sorrow. “Alas. It is in these days that the king will be crowned, and none too soon, but our warriors will not be there to fight by his side.”

It was at that moment they heard a commotion outside, and after a few snips of conversation the door opened. Kurt stepped in, looking fierce and noble amid the simple items of the home. “Kurt!” Blaine rose to his feet at once, “this is Rachel, a relative of mine—her grandfather was my grandmother’s brother.”

“Great-grandmother,” Rachel corrected, though the explanation was a little lost on Blaine. The woman rose and curtsied gracefully to Kurt, who bowed in turn.

“Well met,” said the elf. “I am Khelehkurt Annunaer of Rivendell. May blessings fall upon this our meeting.”

The three of them sat comfortably at the little table, and Blaine turned back to Rachel, waiting for her to continue. In response her face turned grave once more.

“I am sorry, Khelehkurt and Blaine, that war has come this winter. But the fact of the matter is, we have no riders to send.”

“Where are they?” Kurt asked at once.

“There were reports of trolls venturing out from the Ettenmoor mountains some months ago. There were whispers of other, stranger things as well, odd shadows, drifting through the moors. Twenty-six riders set out to push them back. My husband Finngard, chieftain of this camp, was among them. We waited many weeks, but heard nothing. The rest of our men, another thirteen, went out to search, but they too have not returned. In despair we sent our last horse to Halbarad’s camp in Breeland three nights ago. When I heard your horn I hoped he had somehow already come to our aid. But now Blaine tells me that a summons from Rivendell was sent to him as well.”

“It was, and it should have arrived on the nineteenth. I am sorry, Rachel, but I fear the King’s summons may have found them before your own. By now they are likely waiting at the bridge to set out to war.”

Rachel nodded matter-of-factly, but Blaine could see that her resolve was stretched to breaking. “And so you are here, not to find our husbands, but to tell us that no reinforcements are coming. Our men are lost in the wild alone, with no one left to search for them, or—” her voice wavered, “or to tell us what fate they came to.” Tears began to line the bottom of Rachel’s eyes, yet still she sat grave, and strong, a mighty woman of the Dúnedain of old.

Blaine’s heart broke for her. Already he feared he would miss the rendezvous south and to battle, and yet he dearly wished he could be of help. “What can we do?”

It was Kurt that answered. “I will go after them and see what I can find, if your village would do me the courtesy of watching my horse while she heals.”

“And what shall I do?” Blaine asked, doing his best to sound sincere, for he truly longed to be of service. Even so, he realized at once that if Kurt struck off alone he might have a faint chance of riding south to meet the others. He chided himself for the thought; the woman before him was in distress, and a strange pain disturbed him at the thought of leaving Kurt’s side before he’d salvaged his reputation.

“The road north is no place for you, not if men of great skill are disappearing. But take your horse and ride as quickly as you can to Rivendell. Have them send a party on horseback to meet me. By then, with a little luck, I’ll have discovered what happened and we can bring your warriors home.” His tone was reassuring, but Blaine could tell that Kurt did not expect to come upon the men alive.

If Rachel also guessed Kurt’s fear she did not show it. Instead she smiled in gratitude and offered him her thanks. “But for now you must be weary. Why don’t you both rest here tonight. Already today you have journeyed many miles. I can make us some supper, and we can chat a while. Afterwards I can sleep next door with Lorwen and lend you use of my bed.

They both accepted graciously. Rachel excused herself, then, to fetch a chicken from the pen, and Kurt and Blaine were left alone.

“Do you think there’s any hope,” Blaine asked, careful to keep his voice quiet.

“I do not know. Always the borders of the wildlands are disturbed by dark and evil things, yet it has been many years since goblins have ventured as far west as we saw upon the road. You are no longer in Rivendell, young Blaine. Long has Elrond worried that as the dark lord rises other ancient creatures might awaken. I fear that all about us, evil forces are stirring in the dark places of the world.”

Blaine nodded, but a cold dread nagged at him. “And what of King Aragorn and the battle for his throne?”

“I do not know,” Kurt answered honestly. “I trust that Elladan and Elrohir summoned what rangers they could. We can only hope it will be enough to aid the King’s army. But now I wonder if they might not have had more business here. For many centuries the Dúnedain have shielded the lost realms of the north, and I am certain Aragorn would not have them leave their posts now, not even to join his battle, if it would prove devastating to these lands. I can only hope I am not too slow in finding the cause of this mystery. And that you are not too slow in gathering reinforcements.”

Blaine said nothing, and Kurt watched him, seeming to guess his thoughts.

“It is still a worthy task, Blaine. Do not be dismayed that you are playing errand boy. I do not know what power threatens us, but I do not wish to face it alone. I will need other elves, and horses too, if we are to push away this evil.”

“And when the message is delivered?” Blaine asked softly.

“Then it will be for Elrond to decide your next task. Whether that be to ride back with the others to find me, or to wait in the valley for our return.”

“Or to ride with Halbarad to Aragorn’s war,” Blaine said quietly. It was the first time he admitted the hope out loud.

Kurt shook his head, but not without sympathy. “Elrond has already made his decision regarding that, Blaine.”

“I know.”

They were both quiet. Before long Rachel returned, bird in hand. She stopped still when she entered, looking carefully between them. “No,” she commanded firmly. “I won’t have any of those solemn faces. We still have reason to hope, do we not?”

There could only be one answer. “Of course,” said Blaine.

“That’s right.” She walked to set a pot of water on the small woodstove, talking as she went. “So tonight, I shall host a man and elf from Rivendell, and we will drink, and be merry, and leave tomorrow’s troubles for tomorrow.”

“Of course, lady Rachel,” Kurt answered graciously. “Please, tell us how we might be of help.”

The bird was soon scalded and Blaine offered to pluck it. Outside he found a stool and set to work, taking a little longer than was strictly necessary. Mostly he wanted a moment of fresh air to think. Even if he were to ride straight to the bridge tonight, abandoning all help to Kurt and Rachel—something he was hesitant to consider—he would still be hard pressed to reach the rally point in time. He could ride south alone and hope to catch up to the troop, but it would be a slim chance with a tired horse, and he was not confident he knew the way.

He could not go to war. He felt the breath knocked from his lungs to realize it. And yet the more he rolled the dates and options through his mind the more certain he became. It just wasn’t possible. He would not be able to answer the call of his king.

His mind turned, though, to those other words of Kurt: that Aragorn would not have wished the rangers to leave their posts if the north were in danger. The south was not the only place he might be of use, or prove his valor. To Aragorn and Elrond. To Rachel. To Kurt.

Rachel and her husband Finngard were family, apparently. Kurt was right. It would be a worthy task to seek reinforcements from Rivendell, even if when he arrived Elrond forbade him to set out again. And yet.

He thought of Kurt alone in the wild, facing who-knows-what alone. Now that it came to it, he wasn’t eager to leave Kurt’s side. Not on the crest of a great adventure, at least, and not while the elf still doubted him. Surely Blaine was not the only rider who could take Aranna to Rivendell and call an elven troop to their aid.

The bird sat plucked in his lap, and he glanced up to see a few loose dogs crouched and eyeing it eagerly. He sighed and rose to his feet. For now he would eat, and talk with Rachel, and think. If there was a decision to be made, he would make it later. Tonight he would simply enjoy the company he’d so longed for: a town of humans, with hardly an elf in sight.

*     *     *

Despite the shadow that lay upon the village, the three had a merry evening. Rachel wanted to hear every story she could about growing up in the blessed valley, and Blaine happily obliged, though his descriptions of the elves and their customs provoked many incredulous interjections from Kurt. Nevertheless, he too was in good humour, quiet as usual, but reclining comfortably with a peaceful expression on his face. Even with his faultless features and elegant garb, he looked oddly at home in the simple dwelling.

For her part, Rachel was eager to make them feel welcome. She poured an ample helping of ale whenever their cups ran low, and told them all they wished to know about the coming and going of rangers and tidings in the village.

Eventually the fire began to die down. Kurt was lounging blissfully in his chair, and Blaine was leaning across the table toward Rachel, flushed and happy. “It’s incredible, you know,” he told her, “that you can host us so generously at a time like this. You must be so worried.”

Kurt opened an eye warily, but Rachel did not appear bothered by the comment. If anything, she seemed to welcome his concern. “I miss him,” she said softly. “We’ve been married three years, and I thought I’d be used to it all by now. He’s always coming and going—all of them are. But every time it still hurts. I try not to focus on it, while he’s gone. It’s too hard.” Then she smiled, her whole face lighting up. “But every time he comes back, it’s like a gift. It’s marvelous and new, no matter how short or long the journey’s been.”

“I can’t imagine,” Blaine said honestly. “Loving someone and having to wait behind like that. It sounds like torture.”

“It is, sometimes. Not all the time. But at times like this it is. I can ride, you know, and fight. Many ranger women have proved to be as strong as ranger men, or nearly. In years past we would sometimes join them in battle. But our numbers are always dwindling. As chieftain’s wife I’m expected to stay and guard the village. The elderly, the children. It’s an important job, I know, but at times like this, with Finn off and missing. And since the goblin raids four years ago there are never enough _horses_.” Rachel seemed to realize how passionate she was becoming. She let out a breath and focused her attention back to Blaine. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t complain. I know it is an honor to lead the village, while they are gone. At times I just wish there was more I could really _do_.”

“No,” Blaine replied quickly, “I completely understand.” He glanced to Kurt but the elf’s eyes were closed. A bright blush was spread across Kurt’s cheeks, and he was breathing softly. Blaine wasn’t rash enough to imagine Kurt was sleeping, but he looked relaxed enough that Blaine expected he could get away with speaking more freely. “I know what it’s like, to be left behind. I’m still young, I know I am. But I hate feeling that there’s more I could be doing and not being trusted to do it. Especially when you care so much about everything happening in the world, but you aren’t allowed to be a part of it. This is my first real mission, you know.”

“Is it really?” Rachel smiled at him sweetly. “Well I’d say you’re doing an excellent job, for a first time.”

Blaine laughed at that. “Not nearly as well as I could be. To tell you the truth, I made some pretty awful mistakes.”

Rachel shook her heard firmly. “No, I won’t hear any of that. You got here, didn’t you? Your mission was accomplished. Whatever went wrong, I’m sure it was an accident. And how can you learn if you’re not given a chance?” Her eyes hardened and she seemed to look past Blaine, toward the stone wall and the night beyond. “There is nothing shameful about wanting to achieve things, Blaine. You’re a child of Númenor. The blood of kings is in you, same as me. We don’t do well with being cast aside.”

Blaine hummed in agreement as she spoke, but it came out a little too dramatically. He saw Kurt’s shoulders quake with a repressed chuckle. “Khelehkurt! You’re laughing at me!”

“I wouldn’t dare, little Blaine,” the elf replied, not opening his eyes. Blaine wasn’t sure, but he thought the elf’s chest was still vibrating in laughter. Blaine huffed indignantly and leaned back in his chair.

Rachel laughed outright. “You poor thing, raised with elves all about!”

“It’s true. A man in a fortress of the Eldar doesn’t exactly have a lot of triumphs.”

“You were raised in the blessed valley,” interjected Kurt, eyes still closed. “Your whole life has been a triumph.” He smiled as he said it, and Rachel let out a cheerful giggle, rocking backward to drain her cup. Blaine found himself grinning, then laughing along. He could not remember a night this happy for many months. He did not know Rachel well, but he felt they understood one another. There was a strong kinship between them, far deeper than blood. What’s more, Kurt’s coldness seemed to be softening. A determination settled in Blaine’s heart. This time, no matter what path he chose, he was going to make both of them proud.

At last Rachel departed. She kissed Blaine chastely on the cheek as she left, promising to join them again early the next day. “Thank you,” she whispered in his ear. “I needed a distraction.”

“It was my pleasure.” He walked her to the door and closed it gently behind her, turning back to see Kurt add a final log to the fire. The home had seemed bare at first, but now everything appeared incredibly cozy. The scent of roast meat lingered in the air, and light from the flames danced warm across the walls. In a back half of the room, separated by few hanging blankets, a cot wide enough for two was piled thick with furs. After so many nights in the cold it looked tremendously inviting.

They both stepped outdoors to relieve themselves, and when Blaine returned Kurt was already tucking into the right hand side of the bed and stretching out with a huge smile. Blaine followed eagerly. “Oh my goodness!” he exclaimed as he stretched, feeling the tired muscles of his legs and back sink luxuriously into the bedding. “It feels even more wonderful than my goosedown bed back home.”

“I imagine that’s the ale talking,” said Kurt. His tone was friendly.

“Now don’t you start. You have been perfectly charming all evening and I am not going to let you ruin bedtime. Feel that, Kurt!” He bounced a few times, sinking his hips deeper into the mattress and sending the blankets into a flurry.

“What are you doing?” Kurt sat up to tug the furs back where they belonged. “A real bed for the first time in a week and my bedmate insists on _jumping_ in it.”

 “Well at least I’m not being grumpy.” Kurt was right, the ale probably was getting to him. Still, Blaine rolled to face Kurt with a grin and stared at him for a moment. It was dark at the edge of the house, but the shadows played across his face to the flickering of the stove. The elf looked remarkably peaceful, eyes closed and lips resting loose. Restful. It was a far cry from his bitterness in the wild. Was it the ale that had lightened Kurt’s mood, or was he just glad that the task was accomplished? In either case Blaine felt a profound gratitude.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

The elf didn’t stir. “For what?”

“For not being harsh with me, tonight. Coming to a village of my people was really important to me. So thank you.”

Kurt sighed and rolled to face Blaine. His eyes cracked open and he watched Blaine for a moment. Blaine suspected his own expression was too sincere, too needy, but he was in a comfortable bed with a full belly and frankly at the moment he didn’t much care. “You know I wasn’t just trying to be harsh with you. You know that, right?”

“I know. You were teaching me a lesson.”

“No. Blaine, no, it’s not like that at all.” Kurt’s eyes pressed closed as if he were trying to untangle some half-formed thought. “I wasn’t trying to teach you. I wasn’t trying to do anything. I was just mad. It wasn’t about you. I was just angry.”

“Angry at me.”

“Well, yes.” Blaine smiled and Kurt smiled back. “But it wasn’t supposed to be a punishment, Blaine. You showed heart with the goblins. And with the black riders, though in the morning I’ll regret admitting that. I just don’t like close calls. I don’t like _death_. And so I was angry.”

“I’m sorry for making you angry.”

“I know. And it’s okay Blaine. I know you will do well when you ride back to Rivendell for reinforcements. I trust that you won’t leave me out there all alone.” Kurt smiled, his eyes wide open now, blue like glassy twilight, and his pale skin seemed almost to glow in the dim room. Blaine realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this close to an elf’s face. He was stuck anew with the beauty of the Eldar. It was a comforting thing to visit a village of his people, and he had felt at home with Rachel in a way he couldn’t even put words to. Yet there was something set apart about the elves, distant though they could seem. Something vastly precious.

“The reinforcements will come for you.” Blaine whispered. “I promise.”

With a last smile Kurt rolled onto his back, and Blaine rolled away in turn. All at once, his mind was made up. He would not leave Kurt all alone in the wild, and what’s more, he may be able to fulfill Rachel’s dream as well.


	5. The Ettenmoors

The door squeaked open and both of them jerked awake. It took Blaine a moment to remember where he was, before he heard Kurt beside him, yawning and shuffling out from the blankets. Rachel was silhouetted in the doorway, but outside was still mostly dark. “Good morning!” she announced, going straight for the stove, where the fire had died to embers. “Up you get! The sun has almost risen.”

Blaine stretched and sat up. He felt uncommonly groggy in the stale room—likely the result of the ale. Outside of the blankets the air was bitterly cold.

Across the bed Kurt was already shrugging into his outer garments. Blaine huffed. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”

Kurt didn’t look up. “It’s a long march to the Ettenmoors, if indeed Finngard and the others did not venture farther. And I do not value long goodbyes.”

Rachel continued to chat pleasantly as they collected their things. She had rounded up more food for both of them while they slept, and soon their bags were filled. Outside, Blaine was surprised to find a large crowd of women already gathered to see them off. A heavy silence lay over the village while they passed.

When Kurt reached the gates he turned back to give Rachel thanks for her hospitality. “I will do all I can to find your men,” he said softly. She nodded, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. Kurt turned to Blaine. “Ride soon, son of Andros. Tell Elrond to send the riders straight for the Ettenmoors. I will leave what signs for them I can.”

“I will have them sent. And perhaps you will see me with them.”

“So be it.” Kurt glanced out over the crowd of faces and gave a firm nod to no one in particular. Then he turned without hesitation and marched off into the gloom.

Rachel spun to Blaine, still playing hostess. “Your horse has been made ready—”

Blaine grabbed her arm and tugged her back into the village, leaning over to whisper in her ear. “I need to talk to you. Now.”

Rachel didn’t resist, letting him lead her back through the crowd and behind a tall grey tent. When he came to a stop her expression was serious. “What is this about?”

“Are you still looking for a way to help?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Ride Aranna to Rivendell.”

“What?” Rachel sounded confused, but her chin rose up at his words, and a small light seemed kindled in her eyes.

“You don’t want to be left with nothing to do. I don’t want to leave Kurt alone in the wild while I play errand boy and get detained in Rivendell again. So you ride to Rivendell for reinforcements, and I will go with Kurt to the Ettenmoors.”

“You want to journey north on foot?”

“Kurt is already going. I want to go with him.”

“He’ll send you back.”

“If my horse is already gone it won’t matter. He’ll have no reason to send me away. And with some luck I can follow at a distance for several miles before he notices me.”

Rachel raised an eyebrow at that but didn’t argue. She was breathing hard. “You would lend me your horse.”

“Yes.”

“So that you can help Khelehkurt in his search.”

“Yes.”

“Won’t you slow him down?”

“Does it matter? I want to help.”

“That’s the most selfish thing I’ve ever heard.”

Blaine shook his head. “No, it’s not. You said yourself that rangers need to be of use—which I’m trying to help you be as well. But in any case that came out all wrong: this isn’t about whether or not I _want_ to help, this is about whether I _can_ help. And I promise you Kurt will be better off with me beside him. We can set a watch while each of us sleeps, for one thing, so he won’t just get slaughtered in the night. I’m a ranger, so my instincts in tracking other humans may be of value. And while I’m no veteran, I know I can be an asset in combat. By the sound of things this mission needs as many swords as it can get.”

She looked at him skeptically. Then all at once she stepped toward him, face red and eyes wild. “Do you promise to bring him home?”

“Rachel.” Blaine wanted to step backward. She was so close. “He’s been missing for weeks. I’ll do everything I can, but—“

“No! Do you _promise_. Dead or alive, do you promise to bring Finn home?”

Blaine swallowed. “Yes.”

She stood before him, shaking. “He wears a star-shaped brooch. On the tunic across his chest. It is not valuable. Or rather, it is plain bronze, there are no jewels. So it shouldn’t have been stolen. That is how you will know him if—” her jaw clenched. “If it comes to that.”

“Rachel.” He spoke the name softly and all at once she was crying, collapsed against him, hands clinging to his chest. He hugged her close while her body trembled, wishing he had some further way to reassure her. Finally with a loud sniff she wiped her eyes and stepped back to look at him.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry Rachel. I can’t even imagine how hard it has been for you. To have someone you love off in the wild while you are left behind.”

Her eyes narrowed at that, but he could not tell why. Then she forced a smile and drew back, turning toward her house. “Come,” she said. “We must make way.”

“Follow the Hoarwell to the bridge, then take the road east to the Ford of Bruinen. When you’ve crossed the ford, far ahead you will see the Misty Mountains. Find the largest peak, and to its left there is a smaller one, rounded near the brim. Make straight for it and you should come upon the cliffs of Rivendell within a few hundred yards of the hidden road. In any case, Aranna knows the way. Whisper _mélamar_ to her, and she will guide you.”

They had entered, and already Rachel was collecting clothing and food from her cupboards. “I understand,” she said quickly. “The path to Rivendell has not been forgotten among our kind. I will ride hard, and be with the reinforcements when they come for you. But you had better hurry. You have an elf to catch.” He lingered a moment, watching her, and she paused her frantic packing to look up. “Thank you, Blaine. I will take care of your horse, I will see you soon, everything is settled now _go_!” Blaine nodded, stepping toward the door. “Remember your promise!” Rachel called louder. “Bring Finn home!”

Without another word he turned and left. He was doing it. Setting out into the wild without permission yet again. But this time, he would not be alone.

*     *     *

Outside the village gate Kurt was already nowhere to be seen. A light snow still dusted all the lands about, and Blaine set off quickly in the direction he’d seen Kurt go, weaving to and fro a little to follow the intermittent trail of prints heading northeast. Of course Blaine had never been to the Ettenmoors, but he knew the tales. A land of barren hills, and behind a line of high peaks jutting west from the Misty Moutains, which for many centuries had been known to house trolls and who knows what else. The Ettenmoor mountains were still too far off to see, but all ahead the earth curled bumpy and jagged, with many crags and outcropings of stone. Grass and moss poked brown through the frost, and the bushes were sporadic, and dead. Kurt’s footprints barely marked the ground, already almost indiscernible. Above, the clouds threatened snow.

Kurt’s trail led up a long hill and Blaine slowed when he neared the top, peaking out carefully to try to spot the elf. It took a moment, for despite the blue of his cloak Kurt seemed to fade naturally into the surrounding snow and rock. But Blaine saw him, far off—much farther than Blaine had thought possible in the short time that had passed between their exits of the village. Already Kurt was high up another bluff and threatening to disappear once more. Blaine began to run.

The pursuit was exhausting. For long stretches Kurt was nowhere to be seen, and then Blaine would top some hill or clear an outcropping of rock only to see the elf farther in the distance still. What was more, Kurt didn’t even appear to be running, yet Blaine was jogging until his lungs stabbed with pain and still failing to match the elf’s keen stride. Snow began to fall. Tiny flakes, that melted where they landed on his arms, but enough that the trail of footprints—which by now Blaine would have certainly lost if it weren’t going almost precisely straight—began to disappear.

As his legs numbed and his lungs strained to splitting Blaine realized it was no use. He had to simply trust that by now Rachel and Aranna were long gone, and chance calling out to Kurt. The elf might order him back to the camp, but short of some violence Kurt had no real way of preventing Blaine from following, and Blaine would tell him as much. Ahead was another hill, topped with a fringe of tall, sharp rock. With a last burst of energy Blaine sprinted up it, prepared to make himself known.

Kurt was nowhere to be seen.

From his vantage between the rocks Blaine could see far into the distance, but there was simply no sign of the elf. He stood still, watching every crag and stone for motion. There was none. If Kurt was already out of sight, what chance did Blaine have of ever catching up?

He started walking forward, still panting hard. Kurt’s direction hadn’t changed since they first left the village. Even with the trail of footprints gone, Blaine was bound to come on him eventually, if he just kept going. If not tonight, then tomorrow. Blaine just couldn’t sleep. That was all. He just had to keep running, all day, and not stop to sleep tonight. Or maybe tomorrow night either. His heart thudded and he wiped sweaty hair back from his face. Just because he’d lost Kurt didn’t mean setting out was a bad idea. He’d made Rachel a promise. He could search the Ettenmoors on his own, if he had to. It wasn’t exactly a _good_ plan, but surely it was better than—

All at once he felt a glove on his shoulder and steel against his throat. Blaine gasped, closed his eyes, and yelled Kurt’s name as loudly as he could manage.

The hands released him, and Blaine drew his sword as he spun. Out of the arc of his blade, Kurt hopped backward. His expression was unreadable.

“Kurt!” Blaine wanted to collapse in relief. “It’s only you! And I’ve found you!”

“You found _me_?”

Blaine put his sword away. He still felt very out of breath, and a little lightheaded. He stood up straight, though, ready to make his argument. His mouth hung slightly open. He couldn’t seem to stop grinning.

“Do you have _any_ idea—”

“Yes,” Blaine interrupted. “I do.” Kurt’s mouth snapped closed. Blaine took another breath, and wiped his forehead. “I want to be here. You can’t stop me from being here. Rachel is riding for reinforcements.”

“Rachel doesn’t know—”

“The way. No. But Aranna does. And Rachel wanted to help. Rachel _deserves_ to help. And so do I.”

“Deserve? You’re here because you _deserve_ to help? Let’s just pretend for a moment that is a valid reason to set off on a quest, which, by the way, it is not. What part of getting pinned from behind not three hours after leaving the village suggests to you that this is a journey you deserve to take part in? You don’t know what you are doing, Blaine! How many times do I have to tell you that?”

Kurt’s face was red. His eyebrows slanted fiercely, and his eyes looked very dark. Blaine didn’t break eye contact. Instead he shrugged, daring the elf to force him away.

“What is that supposed to mean!” Kurt flung his arms in the air and paced back. “What if I don’t _want_ you here, Blaine? Don’t I get any say in what companions I take with me?”

Blaine kept his voice light. “I suppose you do. Just like I get to decide whether I’ll go to the Ettenmoors on my own if you leave me. Which I will. But Kurt, I’m not at all convinced you don’t want me here.”

Kurt stared at him. “Let me clear that up for you. I don’t want you here.”

Blaine shook his head. “I don’t think that’s it at all. I think you would love to have me here. I think you just don’t want me to get killed.”

“What are you trying to say, Blaine? What difference does that make?”

“I don’t think you should get to decide if I risk my life. So,” he straightened himself a little taller, “I’m not letting you. I’ve already decided to risk my life either way. Not your choice, not your responsibility. Which means the only choice you have to make is whether you want to run off by yourself and leave us both risking our lives all alone, or whether you’d rather just let me come along.”

Kurt stood limp, shoulders stooped forward, staring at Blaine. “You are infuriating.”

Blaine’s heart was racing, but he forced himself to keep smiling.

“Infuriating!” At that Kurt walked away, northeast down the hill. Blaine followed in silence.

He found it was no longer difficult to keep up.

*     *     *

The key, Blaine decided, was to remain obnoxiously cheerful. Kurt was not speaking to him, of course, but now and then he would subtly glance back over his shoulder, and every time Blaine was ready with a perfectly agreeable smile. As the day lengthened Blaine’s smiles were followed with more and more audible sighs. Kurt would be speaking to him again come nightfall. Blaine was sure of it.

Kurt did even better. An hour or so before sundown they came to a cleft between two shags of rock. It was about ten yards wide and bare of snow, for it was sheltered from the west wind, but it looked over an uneven valley to the northeast, the direction any danger was most likely to come from. Kurt explored the place thoroughly, then turned to Blaine with a relieved breath. “It’s better than I’d hoped to find, tonight. And, since there is now a human on this quest, I expect we’ll be stopping for rest every day.”

“Blame me all you like,” Blaine grinned, shrugging off his pack. “But even if you don’t require as much sleep to function, I know you enjoy it every bit as much as I do. Anyway I think this is a fine place to camp.”

“Obviously I am very glad to have your approval.”

“Obviously.” Blaine opened his bag and began rummaging through it while Kurt stood watching. “Oh have a seat. Or find some firewood, if you’d like. I can make supper.”

“Can you now?”

Blaine pulled out a few of the loaves Rachel had packed in search of meat. “Indeed I can. I’ve been helping in the kitchen for fifteen years.”

“Is that so! Fifteen whole years?”

“That is a perfectly respectable length of time!”

“I don’t deny it. I am sure to a young mortal it feels like a vast age! Vegetable harvests must have come and gone like the passing of great kingdoms! Tell me, in your endless years of service did you manage to master the fine art of, say, boiling water? Peeling potatoes, maybe?”

Obnoxiously cheerful, Blaine reminded himself. Obnoxiously cheerful. He looked up from his pack with raised chin and wide, tight smile. “I did. But perhaps my cooking skills do pale in comparison to your prowess at gathering firewood. Hop to it!”

It was a risky comment, but Kurt simply raised his eyebrows and strode off down the hill. Blaine wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw the elf try to hide a thin smile.

The stew was delicious. Blaine made absolutely _sure_ it was delicious. To be honest he probably used a bit more of their meat than was entirely prudent, but he didn’t have much choice, given Kurt’s challenge. Anyway, there was no great risk in using it up, for both of them were fully able to catch game in the wild if need be.

Kurt did not compliment the stew. Which, Blaine reminded himself, he had not expected. It was a bit of a shame, though, seeing as it had been such an exceptionally delicious stew.

The fire was smokier than usual, as there were far too many shrubby holly leaves and not enough branches in the surrounding area. Blaine wanted to tease Kurt for it, given their earlier conversation, but their mockery had transitioned into a pleasant silence, broken by innocuous comments about the path ahead, and Blaine did not want to disturb it. The fire burned, the clouds drew back, and darkness fell.

Blaine’s muscles were tired, but he was not sleepy. In truth, he was bubbling with an excitement he had not felt since the first night out from Rivendell, when he’d rested to the sound of three elves making music in the starlight, and the wide world felt bursting with possibility. This was a grim quest, he had to remind himself, seeking men lost in the wild, all more likely dead than not. Still, despite the harsh odds, it was a rescue mission, and his promise to Rachel burned powerfully in his chest.

“I can take first watch,” Kurt said quietly, interrupting Blaine’s thought. “I am not tired yet.”

“Alright. Do wake me, though, when my turn comes.”

“Of course.” The elf shuffled where he sat. “Would you mind if I played a little? Something quiet, so as not to wake you?”

Blaine had quite forgotten Kurt still carried his harp, and was delighted at the reminder. “I would love that, Kurt. It’s been too many nights without music.”

Kurt pulled his bag open in response, and drew the instrument to his lap while Blaine stretched out on the damp grass, settling in for the night. There were no stars, but the warm flicker of the fire lit the rocks about them, and note by note Kurt’s music scented the air with a soft magic. The notes blended slowly into a sad melody that Blaine had not heard before. He wondered if Kurt was inventing it as he went. But before long Blaine’s focus drifted away up into the sky, and to the hills and valleys ahead, until all the world folded into a gentle sleep.

*     *     *

The following day was gloomy. The sky spat something between rain and sleet, crusting both snow and grass in a wet ice. Each hill rose higher than the one before, the upward climb a burn of thighs and lungs, and the downward slope a treacherous scramble on slick earth. More than once Blaine’s boots lost purchase, and he fell gracelessly, bruising his buttocks or staining his cloak. Kurt fared better, but even he at times lost balance, stumbling for a few steps before halting precariously on bent knees with outstretched arms.

At midday they came upon a large stone heap, unmarked but carefully arranged. “It is a barrow,” Kurt said softly. “Not for any nobility, I think. But for common men who dwelled nearby in centuries past.” Blaine eyed it curiously, but did not draw too close. “We will see more such monuments, as we go north. The Ettenmoors were a place of great ritual for pagan men, during the dark days of Arnor. And in ancient times, long before men set foot in these lands, they were home to other powers.” Kurt looked at Blaine, clearly seeing his discomfort. “We need not linger. Come.”

The rest of the day was spent quietly, for the journey was hard, and Kurt seemed deep in thought. Blaine’s cheerfulness dwindled a little, but he was careful to keep his demeanor pleasant. Adventures were mostly marching or riding for hours without event. He knew this, and he would not be bitter about it. If anything, he felt like the exertion was earning him a place in whatever story might follow. If a song were ever written of this quest, then these miserable days would surely manage a verse. At least a line or two. The fingers of his left hand began to tap against his leg, composing a simple line of chords. He missed his lute. It would have been lovely to be able join Kurt in his evening playing.

Just as the sun was setting, Kurt pointed between a break in the hills to a far off rise of grey. The Ettenmoor mountains, still many miles distant but towering over the earthen foothills. They were crowned with many thin and jagged spikes, receding row upon row away to the east, where they would meet the longer line of the Misty Mountains. Blaine had grown up in sight of the Misty Mountains, but they had always struck him as majestic, despite the dangers he knew hid within. In comparison, these peaks seemed somehow disfigured, as though corroded by a sickly evil.

“I do not like the look of them,” Blaine confessed. “They look almost sharp to the touch. Like no living thing could possibly survive there.”

“I assure you plants and beasts do live there, some more wholesome than others. The Ettenmoors, both hills and mountains, are a labyrinth of ancient trails and passes. I have only ventured into the heart of them once, many years ago. It was a more pleasant time, and I had a good guide. But I expect much will have changed, since then.”

They continued on until well past nightfall. Finding no sheltered place to camp, they eventually stopped upon a flat outcropping of rock and soil fastened to the side of a hill. There was a good view of the lands about, but very little break from the wind. They did not light a fire. Blaine offered to take the first watch, shivering for long hours while he squinting out at the open fields and valleys. Beside him Kurt slept, his relaxed face appearing strangely peaceful. He looked so very young, like this. If his skin and features were not marked with the wisdom and blessing of the Eldar Blaine might have mistaken him for a young man, near to his own age, and delicate, but strong. It was an odd thought.

The following morning Blaine woke to feel the sun on his face. He opened his eyes. Above the clouds had given way to a pale wash of blue, and Kurt was leaning over him, bread and cheese in hand.

Snow remained in damp patches, but much of the ice had melted, and they made better time. Over each crested hill the Ettenmoors loomed closer. Blaine realized they would likely reach the outskirts by nightfall.

“What will we do when we arrive?” he asked suddenly.

“Search,” Kurt answered simply.

“Is that your whole plan?”

“What kind of plan did you expect me to have? We will search sensibly, of course, beginning at the nearest western point, then working our way deeper into the mountains. Thirty-nine horses are bound to leave their mark. And the rangers were here tracking trolls, so we will look for signs of them as well.”

“Right.” Blaine was quiet for a moment. “And will we be able—I mean, do you think there’s much—”

“Hope?” Kurt suggested. “I think there are only two reasons a group of rangers that size would be kept from home so long, and neither of them pleasant. The first is that they were defeated. The second that they learned of some evil and set off in pursuit of it. If that is so, they may be far from here, by now. In either case, though, I do believe we have good reason for hope that the mystery will be solved, before ere long.”

“Why is that?”

“Because it has been three days. Already Rachel may have reached Rivendell. That is, if you are still confident in her abilities.”

“I am,” Blaine said. “Which means only three or four days more until reinforcements arrive.”

“Yes. And with a party of elves, even a small party of half a dozen, we can have every hope of finding or even avenging the lost men.”

“I suppose.”

“Suppose? Do you have doubts, Blaine?”

Blaine hesitated. “I think maybe you are underestimating them, that’s all. Six elves are stronger than forty common men, maybe. But these are rangers. They’ve trained all their lives to defend the wild. If they have indeed been killed, or seen cause to ride father off without sending back even one as messenger, their enemy could be far more dire than you imagine.”

Kurt paused to regard Blaine, looking him up and down with a bemused expression.

“What?”

“It’s nothing.”

Kurt moved to keep walking but Blaine tugged his sleeve to have him stop. “Tell me.”

“It’s just with all your love of rushing into situations unprepared, I didn’t think I’d see the day that you warned _me_ to be more cautious.”

Blaine eyed him a moment. “So what you’re saying is you’re impressed with me.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I’m improving and you are wildly impressed!” Blaine grinned and walked forward, leading the way. “I am an indispensable asset to this venture. You don’t know how you’ve ever survive without me!”

He didn’t need to glance back. He could feel both Kurt’s annoyance and his smile.

They reached the outskirts by nightfall. At least Blaine assumed they had; the hilly country had been slowly transforming into foothills for many miles, and where open country ended and mountains began it was difficult to say. But the rocks were different here, no longer the sporadic boulders surrounding Blackstone but darker, and more ancient, clawing up from the soil like tall knives or rows of sharpened teeth.

They stopped in a narrow patch of grass at the base of a low ridge. Above the stars shone clear, but the moon was new and thin. All about them tall stones blocked the wind, and behind the ridge many rows of cliffs towered ominously. The air was cold.

“There is no sense moving on before daylight,” said Kurt, stretching and removing his pack. “From here on we must watch the ground more carefully.” Blaine waited while the elf dropped his bag and began exploring the nearby crags and gorges. At last he returned to his pack and settled onto the ground. “This is as good a place as any to rest for the night. Come and sit, you must be tired.”

Blaine nodded and removed his bag, but didn’t sit, eyeing the nearby rocks warily. It was an eerie sort of place, and he wasn’t eager to settle in. “Perhaps, if it’s alright with you, I’ll just get a little firewood.”

“There are not many bushes about,” Kurt replied, reaching his arms along his outstretch legs. He was sore, though Blaine knew he wasn’t about to admit it.

“There’s still some buckthorn about. It’s not much, but I’m sure I could find enough to burn, even for an hour or so.” Blaine knew he sounded a little desperate, but the shadows between the rocks seemed to be somehow growing blacker. Even a half-hour of light would cheer the place up, until he got used to things.

“If you wish. Here, I can come.”

The elf moved to get up, but Blaine quickly stopped him. “It’s fine. I won’t go far, and back the way we’ve already been. You don’t need to worry about me. Just rest.” Kurt looked grateful, and Blaine was glad to be of help. Dropping his bag near Kurt’s he quickly turned back the way they’d come.

It was good to retrace familiar ground, and to have something to focus on. Blaine deliberately ignored the foul shapes the tall stones made in the shadows. Sure enough, within ten minutes he had found a tangled patch of buckthorn, and drew his knife to quickly harvest it. There wasn’t much. But it was a start. He could go farther. He stood still a moment, looking over the craggy hills and valleys they’d passed, all now washed in a cold starlight. They had come so far, since Blackstone. Since Rivendell. Suddenly he felt utterly alone.

He turned back toward Kurt. No sense retracing his steps farther than necessary, if there might be shrubs closer by. He weaved to a fro a little, and at last saw another bush not far from the campsite. In a few minutes it was cut and jumbled in his arms with the first. He walked faster, now, knife still in hand. A tall stone on his right curved dangerously toward the top, like a ghastly arm stretched out above a bulbous head. He shuttered. He was sure he was almost where he’d left Kurt. The stars were drifting in and out of clouds, and all the pathways between the stones looked oddly similar.

Then he heard a quiet music, further off to the left. Kurt’s music. The elf was taking the moment of solitude to play his harp.

Blaine felt a little reluctant to interrupt him.

He walked forward slowly, less frightened now that he knew Kurt was near. Rounding an outcropping of rock he could see the elf once more, and he hesitated, half-hid by the stone.

Kurt was beautiful.

The starlight draped silver across his face and chest, but his head was bent, and his brows were furrowed. A wistful music flowed through his fingers and into the dark like a pure river, melted ice from the mountains breaking in spring. Hair landed all about his shoulders, light as dawn, but his cloak was night, and his eyes stars. Almost an elven prince, he looked, newly woken in the first age of the world, before the lands were stained.

Blaine’s heart wanted to burst at the sight. It was gratitude, maybe, to be some small part in Kurt’s tale, or sorrow at the melancholy of Kurt’s song, and his own passing place its verses. He looked on a long while, transfixed, and the moon spun east and the shadows grew. Caught in the spell his eyes wandered slowly throughout the sheltered space Kurt sat, and  lifted up toward the stars. Behind Kurt the expanse of rock stretched high into the night, like some tall figure of stone, braced wide with upheld limbs or weapons. And then, the stone shifted.


	6. The Ring of Stone

Blaine stood frozen. The crest of the massive rock behind Kurt was reaching slowly upward. He squinted, too numb to move from his hiding place. At the peak was a bar of stone like a great arm, winding back into space. It was readying to drop on Kurt, who still sat playing, totally unaware.

There was no air in his lungs. The firewood fell from his arms. Blaine ran from his hiding place, trying to yell, but no sound came. His knife was in his hand. In a second his arm was lifting, throwing—

A mighty howl tore out into the night, followed by a catastrophic crash of rock. The giant form stumbled forward, breaking the slab against which Kurt was sitting. A second later Kurt was standing, legs braced and sword drawn. The beast lifted its arm again to strike, but it paused, giant limbs wobbling precariously. Kurt did not hesitate. With a mighty leap he plunged forward, and his sword pierced through the chest of the beast. It wailed, staggered backward, then fell with a mighty crash.

Blaine wandered forward as in a daze. Kurt was quivering where he stood, sword dripping. From the creature’s dark forehead jutted the hilt of Blaine’s knife.

They stood still for several minutes. The creature did not move. Its surface was grey as cracked rock, and its limbs rested in a heap of solid muscle. It must be double the height of man or elf, and impossibly wider. In its right hand was a jagged knife, long as a great sword among men. At last Blaine regained his breath. “What is it?”

“A troll,” said Kurt. His voice wavered. Blaine had never heard it waver before. The elf turned to Blaine. It took Kurt a moment to meet his eyes. “I did not see it. I was lost in thought. Too careless, playing openly like that. It would have—thank you.”

Kurt kept staring at him, eyes wide. Blaine did not know what to say.

At last Kurt moved to the beast, and in a swift motion pulled Blaine’s knife from its skull. Kurt knelt and cleaned both it and his own sword on the frozen grass. He gave the knife back to Blaine. “It was a fine shot, to pierce both hide and bone. Many an elven warrior might not have managed it.”

Blaine quickly glanced away from Kurt to fix the knife back in his belt. A day ago he would have been thrilled at the praise, but at the moment he felt strangely shy.

Kurt sheathed his sword and gathered up his things. “We cannot stay too close to the body, tonight. Others may be nearby, or come looking. I’m sorry Blaine, but we must carry on a little farther.”

Blaine was exhausted by the time they finally stopped. Kurt had led them for an hour or more deeper up the mountainside, and in the dark many shards of rock leapt up to stab his toes and legs. At last they found a rough break in the stone, seemingly no different from many they had passed, but Kurt seemed finally satisfied, though the ground was sharp and uneven. Blaine barely had three bites of bread before collapsing into an immediate sleep. He did not wake until morning; Kurt had taken the whole night’s watch.

“You should have woken me,” Blaine said as he took the meal Kurt held out to him. “You haven’t slept at all. I can watch for a few hours now, while you rest.”

Kurt shook his head. “You had done more than enough, for one night. Anyway, you can make it up to me this evening. For now, there isn’t any daylight to waste.”

In day time the Ettenmoors were more pleasant. It was a clear morning, and the sun spread warm across the spikes of rock, though they pricked the sky dangerously. At the base of many of the stone ridges earth had indeed gathered, sprouting into grass and brambles, but beside each tangled path rank upon rank of rock paraded never-ending up the mountainside. Just the sight of it made Blaine weary.

They had headed further into the range than Kurt had wanted, in the dark, and he feared they may have missed some sign of the rangers. Even so, they decided not to risk backtracking. There were many paths into the Ettenmoors, but here at the western point most ways led to the same place: a deep gully stretching down from the north to split the first and second peak. Kurt decided to continue on, within whatever maze they’d landed, until they reached the canyon. The riders would almost surely have passed through it, and from there they might search more carefully, before choosing a path east toward the next of the mountains.

Before setting out he drew from his pack a rough pink gem that Blaine had not seen before. It was small, but cloven to a sharp point, and with it Kurt scratched a thin line of letters in the rock face before them. When reinforcements came, they would know the way.

To Blaine’s relief the trail they found themselves on skirted the peak. At times ‘trail’ was too generous a word, for it snaked perilously between many lines of upright stone, and often the earthen patches vanished altogether, and they were left to clamber up sharp ridges. By noon the leather of Blaine’s gloves was badly scraped from climbing. Thankfully, today Kurt was uncommonly generous with him. The elf had less trouble leaping up even tall stones, and would often turn to offer Blaine his hand for balance, or help to tug him onto higher ground.

Shortly after lunch they made their first discovery: a single hoof print pressed in a patch of moss, its shape preserved by a thick frost. Kurt was overjoyed. “This is better than I hoped. One rider, at least, was alive to take this road not more than a few days ago.”

“It is a foul path for horses,” Blaine noted. “There would be much backtracking, I think, to find clear routes.”

“All the more reason to hurry. We will move just as fast on foot, or faster. This rider, at least, might be caught within a day or two, if we are lucky. Come, and keep your eyes peeled.”

They went some hours further, and Blaine was thrilled when he spotted the next sign: another print, this time in a gravely patch of mud.

“Well seen,” Kurt praised him, clapping a hand briefly on Blaine’s shoulder. He knelt to inspect the print. “Again it is fresh—the same horse, I think, though it could have been another. The horses of the rangers are hearty indeed to navigate these channels. Come.”

They were energized, moving forward, always watching the soil for prints, with Kurt stopping, now and then, to leave a mark for the elven riders that would come behind. Blaine wondered if they might come upon the ranger men even before the reinforcements from Rivendell arrived. He pictured Rachel’s face, when he presented Finn to her. It was a wonderful thought, the slender woman leaping from Aranna to greet her love; the chieftain’s joy when he saw her. Perhaps when they found Finngard Blaine would fail to mention that Rachel would be with the elven reinforcements, so that Finn could enjoy the surprise, when it came, and not worry for her in the meantime.

The sun was sinking lower when at last they caught a sight of the chasm Kurt had spoken of. It was still a ways ahead, and very deep below them, twisting as though worn by a great river between the peaks, with many streams carving through the stone from both mountain sides to join it. But within the gully the air hung black, and there was no sign of moving water. Across it another great mountain rose, many lines of the same black rock strung upward in sharp points, and the light from the west fell orange upon its peak. Here and there Blaine thought the rocks took different, more manmade forms. Piles of stone, or high carved spikes, tall and solitary with edges just a hint too smooth, or square. They looked terribly ancient. It made Blaine nervous.

From their vantage point Kurt plotted a smoother path to the gully, and they made it down just as the sun was setting. Now that they’d arrive Kurt was very hesitant to move before daylight, lest they miss some further sign, but he still led them in a careful circuit before finding a place to settle for the night. If it was possible, Blaine thought the elf looked nervous.

Neither of them mentioned fire or music. They ate quietly, sitting close by one another, their backs propped against a solitary stone some two yards wide. A cold breeze hissed down the gully from the north, cutting at their faces. At last Blaine stretched and adjusted his cloak. “I will take watch. Get some sleep.”

Kurt nodded. “I would warn you to keep a keen eye out for trolls, but it seems in that task I am the one who’s lacking.”

“Don’t,” Blaine said softly.

“Don’t what?”

“I appreciate the compliment. But don’t run yourself down. You don’t have to.”

Kurt smiled. “I know I don’t. I was only meaning to be polite.” He searched Blaine’s face a moment, deep in thought. “The Battle of Fornost,” he said at last.

“What about it?”

“That was the last time someone saved my life. It was a little different, in the tangle of battle, where all night soldiers are left defending one another. I remember that Maethor beat off a tall warrior who was running at me, and within the hour I returned the favor. But there was another, later in the night, when a group of orcs and men had trapped me a little ways aside and threatened to ruin me. Arvelnor! That was his name, I think.” Kurt’s eyes narrowed. “He was human too. From Gondor, maybe, or perhaps of the Dúnedain. In either case he was terribly young. Not unlike you.” Kurt sighed and looked away. “I do not think he survived the night.”

Blaine’s voice was hushed. “That battle was a thousand years ago. After the drowning of the last king of the north.”

“I suppose it was.”

“You are very old, Khelehkurt.” Blaine had not used the elf’s full name for many days, in word or in thought. Blaine was only a child when he’d started referring to him as Kurt, as a few of the other elves were prone to. Here in the dark his full title seemed more fitting, though. Blaine dared to watch the elf as he sat looking out into the night. He was ancient, Blaine realized. How ancient he was not sure, among the oldest in Rivendell, surely, judging from his seat with Glorfindel and Lord Elrond at the high table. He appeared so young. And yet the better term was ageless, for confidence lined every angle of his face, and a great wisdom or sorrow rested in his eyes. How much he must have seen and done in all those years. All those songs of great deeds and battles sung in the halls of Rivendell—how often might Khelehkurt have lived them, risking everything to land unnamed in the tales? And yet not a week ago Rachel had said her husband was missing, and without pause Khelehkurt had volunteered to go all alone in search. And, Blaine realized uncomfortably, it might have been to his death, if Blaine had not joined him.

Kurt turned to see Blaine staring, yet Blaine was not ready to look away. “Thank you,” he whispered to the elf. He did not know what for—the centuries of duty, perhaps. Or how despite them all he was guiding Blaine, now, on their own small adventure.

Somehow, Kurt seemed to understand. Without dropping Blaine’s gaze he nodded, just a little. “You are very welcome, son of Andros.” Kurt’s hand reached forward, bare fingers brushing a slow line up Blaine’s glove. “The truth is, I’m glad you are here.”

“You’re just saying that because I saved your life.” It was meant to be a joke, but Blaine’s tone was flat, and a little awe-filled.

“Clearly.” Kurt glanced down to where his hand rested against Blaine’s. He was still a moment, then took a breath and with a final, friendly squeeze pulled his hand away. Blaine felt some moment break, though what it had been he could not say. The elf smiled at him, a little too casually, then all at once shuffled to stretch out on the ground, rolling to face the other way. “Wake me when the bow of Menelmacar rises. Good night, son of Andros.”

“Good night.” Blaine stretched back and began the tedious work of watching the shadows for noise or motion. He felt something significant had happened between them. Perhaps it was what he had been waiting for—some chance to prove himself. Certainly he had done that, by now. And yet instead of proud he felt confused, and a little melancholy. The close call of the night before seemed to have affected Kurt, as had Blaine coming to his rescue. That was not the most honest way to put it; Kurt had dealt the final blow. But whatever the case something in Kurt had been touched, awoken even. Blaine lolled his head back against the stone. He smiled. He wasn’t sure what Kurt’s odd mood had been, just now, but whatever it was it had meant something to the elf. And Blaine was glad for that. Kurt deserved it, deserved any happiness that might be found in this journey. Too often the elf had seemed angry, or sad, out on the road, even in the halls of Rivendell. Blaine only hoped that he might be of some service in giving Kurt whatever it was he was wishing for.

*     *     *

The next morning it was hours before they found the mark of horses, when they did, it was in the form of a great trampling of brush a ways south, already many days old. “This is not the rider we spotted yesterday,” Kurt estimated, “but a larger group, who passed by many weeks ago. It seems they rode straight up the gully and set off east from here, in that direction, and on to the next peak. Let us do our best to follow.”

“Wait,” exclaimed Blaine suddenly. While Kurt had been examining the grasses Blaine had noticed something of his own. There was a marking scratched into the gully wall: a narrow upright bar, crossed in the center with a short thin line that angled upward; it was some symbol, or perhaps the solitary rune for ‘N’. “It’s fresh, I think. At least, it looks fresh to me.”

Kurt hurried to his side and examined the rock face, then stooped to the ground, searching the soil back the way they’d come. “Aha!” he cried at last, beckoning Blaine to join him. “It is yesterday’s rider, as I expected. I think the marking shows that he went off north. Why he didn’t follow the others I’m not sure.”

Blaine stared carefully at the tracks Kurt had found. Almost he thought he saw two rows of hooves, one not two days old and the other faint like a memory of many weeks before. Perhaps when they first passed through the rangers had sent some scout off, that way. Or perhaps his eyes were mistaken.

“Who was he? The rider that left the mark?” Blaine asked.

“From the look of it, I would guess it was one of the ranger men, though I cannot say for certain as the mark was made in haste. Or perhaps it is some other sign that has nothing to do with us. There are other beings in these lands, at times, on purposes of their own.” Kurt stood silently a moment, surveying the gully north and the narrow pathway east up to the next mountain. “Whoever he was,” Kurt said at last, “For now at least he is not our concern. The troop went east, of that I am sure. That is where we must follow.”

Leaving his own mark beside the other on the stone, Kurt carried on, up from the canyon through a wide cleft of rock. Blaine followed, and immediately they were back into the tangled labyrinth of the next mountain side. This trail was easier to follow, though, for with so many horses they had picked always the smoothest path, and the prints lay preserved beneath weeks of snow and ice only now melting.

After an hour or so the companions came upon a split in the trail, where a few horses seemed to have veered off to the right, to pursue a thin crag south. They followed. After twenty minutes they came upon a great cave, its black mouth gaping from a hollow of earth beneath an overhang of stone. There was a lingering stench to the air, but the land looked barren.

“It is a troll cave,” Kurt whispered, “though the snow and earth about the entrance look unmarked, save for the horses. I do not think it is inhabited. Still, be cautious.”

They marched into the mouth of it, careful not to step far beyond where sunlight lit the ground. Kurt drew his sword, but from his expression it seemed to be a mere precaution. He examined the walls with interest, and at last sheathed his sword and walked on freely. “It is as I guessed,” he called behind him. “This place has not been lived in for many months. An odd thing, to see a perfectly fine troll hole abandoned here, yet meet a troll in the very outskirts of the mountains.”

“What do you think it means?” Blaine called. He was lingering some ways behind Kurt, blade still out. He trusted Kurt, of course, but he was not eager to march into a troll cave, inhabited or no.

“I wonder.” Kurt disappeared from sight completely, into a dark curve at the back of the space. A minute later he returned. “There are goods here, still, and bones with meat left uneaten. Whatever drove the troll out, it left in haste, and did not return.”

“Was it the ranger men, then?”

“Maybe,” replied Kurt, “But the horse prints show no signs of conflict, and there is no corpse, either rotting within or turned to stone without. If anything I would wager the cave was already empty when they came.”

Blaine didn’t know why, but the news made him nervous. He could still see the beast, slain two nights ago: how it towered above Kurt’s slender form, blending so perfectly into the very mountain. Any force that could drive such a creature away was not pleasant to imagine.

They returned to the main trail, following it further east along the range. Someone among the rangers must have been familiar with these lands, for it twisted in unexpected ways and yet always to what appeared the gentlest ground for horses. Now and then the rocks about seemed strangely cut, as though the conduit they followed was carved here many centuries ago, though for what purpose Blaine could not begin to guess. They found no other signs that day, of men or troll, beyond the constant run of weeks-old hoof prints. That night they rested once more without fire or song.

The next day the trail curved upward. Already they were nearing the third peak of the range, nearly halfway between the outskirts they’d arrived at and where the Ettenmoor range rose to meet the Misty Mountains. The clouds hung low, today, and as their elevation wound higher a cold wind whistled between the rocks. Every hour or so trails of steps left the main group, each landing at last before another troll cave, and all of them abandoned. Blaine avoided entering each one, and Kurt did not press him to. They were in the heart of troll country.

A nasty smell mingled with the cold winds, peeling at Blaine’s nose. Why the trolls had gone Kurt could not say, but he was convinced, now, that the ranger troop had been searching out the same mystery. An unpleasant thought, given the rangers’ disappearance. Still, Blaine took comfort. First that Kurt’s full confidence had returned—he stepped lightly, calling back to Blaine with an easy sureness as they went. Second, now that the path they followed was easier for horses, he expected Rachel and the Rivendell reinforcements to reach them at any time. He took to glancing behind him, whenever they cleared a pass or summit, hoping to glimpse a band of fair elven riders coming up behind.

They rested that night on an outcropping of stone in the full wind, for Kurt decided to risk being seen in exchange for better vision of the lands about. “There is some presence in the air,” he said simply. Blaine did not ask what he meant. They huddled closer that night, trading the watch twice each, for the mix of wind and exhaustion prevented both of them from either sleeping or waking very long at a time. 

The next day there was snow. Blaine had thought the ice on the stony plains north of Blackstone had been treacherous, but it was no comparison to what they faced here. The slick trail often edged precariously along the lip of deep cliffs, where any fall would mean instant impalement on the sharp rocks below. They took to walking arm in arm, where they could, or with Blaine ahead, Kurt’s hand raised against his back, ready to catch him should the path give way. As they went on Blaine feared he was ever nearer to losing his footing, for his legs were desperately cold, and he could not feel his toes.

It was difficult to say how long they walked; a low wall of cloud hid the sun and soon engulfed the trail about them, even as it wound higher. They were forced to move ever more slowly. At last the hedge of rock about them opened into a plateau of flat rock. Blaine could not tell how wide it stretched, for white vapors blocked his view on every side.  Faintly he wondered if they had reached the mountains’ peak. Beside him Kurt slowed, and Blaine did likewise. There was something chill to the air, something besides its temperature. The wailing of wind on rock seemed strangely vocal here, as though the very stones were shaped to summon some dark presence. A too familiar dread plunged through Blaine’s chest. Something was very wrong.

Kurt tiptoed ahead, quietly drawing his sword. Blaine followed his lead, but with his left hand he reached to softly touch Kurt’s shoulder. They marched forward in unison.

Ahead, a narrow pillar of stone materialized from the gloom, dreadfully tall, seeming somehow wider at its pinnacle than its base. Its corners were nearly square. Slowly they stepped toward it, then passed. Blaine thought he could see some ancient script carved along the surface, now nearly obliterated by the wind. They went a few yards further, then Kurt stopped, gripping his sword tighter and rotating slowly. Automatically Blaine stepped with his back pressed to Kurt’s and faced out the other way, matching Kurt’s rotation. The wind picked up with a breathy wail, and like the rising of a curtain all about them the clouds hoisted backward. Leaning down on them was a great circle of solitary stones, some roughly slanted, others dreadfully straight and tall, but all rising unnaturally from the earth, as though planted by some dark and ancient power. Blaine was struck by a sudden bolt of panic. He and Kurt were caught in the circle’s very center.

“Quick, quick, through!” Kurt yelled. He sprung forward across the ring of stone. Blaine moved to follow, then staggered as though held back by some unseen force. The break in the cloud was quickly undone; white mists drifting back between the stones to close about him. A thin hiss of wind, or something like it, spun through the air, seeming to circle him from within the vapors. He somehow realized he had kept spinning, and was not now sure which direction he had come, or Kurt had gone.

“Kurt!” he called out, desperate to know which way to run. _Any way_ , something in him whispered, _any way, just leave the ring of stone!_ But another voice came louder, like a cold chant from the ground beneath him, in a language he did not know. His legs were already frozen, and to the rhythm of the voice they gave way beneath him. His hands seemed bound to the rock where he fell.

Somewhere in the distance a different voice echoed, as though shouted through a glass or wall of stone. “Elbereth!” it cried, “Elbereth Gilthoniel!” At the second word the glass broke, and the voice rang clearer. But already Blaine was very far away.

“Elbereth,” he whispered, eyes sinking closed. He had known the word, perhaps, in some other world.

Kurt’s hand landed on his shoulder. He was being dragged away, between the stones. All at once Blaine’s eyes snapped open. He lay still a moment, struggling to breathe. Kurt hovered over him, brows knotted in concern. His mouth was moving, but it was a moment before Blaine recognized the elf was saying his name with increasing stress.

“What—what was—”

Kurt let out a great sigh. He collapsed beside Blaine in relief. It was a moment before he answered. “It is a pagan monument of old. Not a barrow, not at this height. But for some other, darker ritual.” Kurt beckoned to their left. Blaine followed his motion and could just make out a platform of stone, jutting away from the mountain top out over the endless ranks of sharp rock below. This was a place for executions, then. The word ‘sacrifice’ came to mind, but he drove it quickly away.

“I did not think the men of Arnor did such things.”

“They did not, until the Witch-king rose to power in the north. After that I do not know what evil things men risked, in his service. But the standing stones are older still than that.”

“There was a voice.”

Kurt looked shocked.

“A chanting, as though out of the stone beneath me. It bound my legs, somehow. I could not move, or—or wish to move.”

Kurt shook his head, aghast. “I knew you were caught in some spell that lingered here, but I did not expect any force to still be present. I wonder.”

Kurt stood then, and stepped gingerly forward to the stone platform, then out onto its surface. He looked down, and a shadow fell across his face. As he returned Blaine thought that tears lined his eyes. “The horses,” he said softly. “They were bewitched. They are gone.”

Panic seized Blaine. He felt like vomiting. “And the men?”

With a grim smile Kurt shook his head. “I did not see any men among the bodies. They must have dismounted, or jumped away in time.” But even as he said it he saw something further up the clearing. He bolted off, and staggering to his feet Blaine followed. Strewn carelessly on the ground was a leather boot. He ran further to see a fallen man, half frozen and half rotted in the open air. Blaine raised a hand to his heart, and as though in answer to his fears a foul wind drove the lingering clouds away.

About them was a vast clearing of ranger men, each laid flat on their backs. There were no wounds to be seen along their bodies, but looks of terror warped their white faces. Kurt sunk to his knees with a loud cry, even while Blaine staggered further into the midst of them, spinning about in horror. Every one of them was dead.


	7. The Journey North

“We must leave.” Kurt’s voice was high with panic. “We must leave at once!” He began to step away, but Blaine lingered. “Blaine.” Kurt ran to him, gripping his shoulders with both arms and tugging him back.

“Don’t!” Blaine shook away, breathing hard. “We can’t just leave. At the very least we must count them.”

Kurt looked at him warily. Blaine did not need to be warned that whatever force had done this might still be present. It did not matter. He had made Rachel a promise. He began moving between the bodies, and reluctantly Kurt joined him. There were thirty-eight in all.

“Thirty-nine set out form Blackstone,” Kurt said softly. “The last must be the rider whose steps were more recent, that we saw our first night in the moors, and again heading North up the gully. Though whether he fell behind or escaped the onslaught I cannot say.”

“One survived,” Blaine said softly. It meant a faint hope, still, for Rachel, and he wished to be glad of it, but for him it indicated a second more chilling task. Carefully he moved to the nearest man and lifted his mail at the neck. With a grimace he stretched his hand to the tunic beneath, groping along the dead chest, searching for a star shaped brooch.

“What are you doing?” It was not an accusation.

“Rachel told me Finngard wore a brooch. I promised her that dead or alive I would bring him home.”

“You promised to bring home a body? Blaine. You’ve seen the trail we marched up. There is no way we can carry a body back on foot.”

“I know.” Blaine sighed. “But let me find him, at least. Then we will know. And we can set him aside from the others, for when the reinforcements come. Then Rachel can decide for herself where to lay him.”

Kurt joined in the task, but even between them it took most of an hour to check the bodies, for their mail was still frozen against their clothing, and at times needed to be pried unceremoniously free. When their circuit was complete, however, there was no brooch to be found. They did, however, come across trail of fresh hoof prints across a solitary patch of mud.

“Well that is one mystery solved, at least,” Kurt said. “The other rider must have been the chieftain, who came upon the bodies from some other errand and then returned to the gully to set out north.”

“Why would he not return to Blackstone?”

Kurt shook his head. “I cannot be sure. But I wonder if he went to seek whatever power it was that did this.”

“And what power was that,” Blaine asked softly.

“I do not know for certain, but I can guess. That was a wight you heard, Blaine, a horror of the ancient world. Many were summoned by the Witch-king when he was first corrupted by Sauron. After he was defeated at Fornost they retreated from all these lands to occupy his fallen kingdom in Angmar. But if they have come to these places once more, then all Elrond’s fears are being realized. Dark things are waking. A power grows in Angmar; whether it sent them forth or they ran from it I do not know. In any case they came to the Ettenmoors in numbers enough to drive the trolls away, and slay thirty-eight soldiers without wounds.”

Blaine nodded. He did not understand how the rangers were slain, but he was not sure he wished to. More than anything he wanted to leave this place.

“Can we burn them?” he asked softly. He knew the answer, for night was nearly upon them, and there had been no wood for miles.

“It is maybe for the best to leave them as they are, though I hate to say it. The men of Númenor have always been buried, not burned, except in pagan times. Under the circumstances I think it would not be right. Anyway, if we are right that Finngard passed through here, he elected to leave them as they lie. We can respect his choice. If Rachel wishes to gather wood, when she comes, they will have horses to carry it, though it would be a task of many days.”

Their duty was done, then. All at once Blaine was overcome. He wished to cry, but instead found he could only whisper Kurt’s name aloud. All the years he had longed to see a troop of the descendants of Númenor, his people, only to come upon them like this. It was too ghastly to imagine. The horror on their faces, in their dead eyes. And even now Blaine could almost feel the cold circle of stone looming behind him. The voice that had trapped him there still rung in his ears.

“Come,” Kurt said softly. The elf stepped to Blaine, and gently took his hand. They walked like that, away from the fallen men, and made to pass the ominous ledge and black ring of stones. Only then did Blaine’s eyes fall to his waist.

“Kurt! Kurt, my sword. I drew it when we entered the circle.” Even as he spoke, he spotted the blade, lying haphazardly within the ring. It looked oddly dull.

“Wait here,” Kurt whispered, giving Blaine’s hand a soft squeeze. Without another word the elf walked forward and between two standing stones. Blaine’s heart was in his throat. Stiffly Kurt bent and collected the sword, then he turned and nearly sprinted back outside the circle. He reached Blaine with a relieved smile. “There you go, no harm done.” Grasping Blaine’s hand once more Kurt carried on away from the horrid place, even as Blaine still struggled to sheath the blade. The sword felt the same, surely, and yet he was too aware of it now, where it dangled from his belt. He wondered if Kurt had sensed anything, dashing back into that awful circle, but he did not want to ask. Instead he held Kurt’s hand a little tighter. It felt like a soft flame; safe and comforting while all about the world grew perilous and dark. He wished he might never have reason to let go.

They were a mile or more down the mountain before Blaine began to breathe easier, but by then it was growing dark, and they did not dare wander further. That night they huddled together inside a narrow split of rock, facing the trail and dark precipice beyond. They did not speak about setting watch, both drifting in and out of consciousness in uneven shares as the night passed on. Even while he slept, Blaine never let go of Kurt’s hand.

For two days they marched in silence to the gully. They went a little faster, now that they knew the way, and the path was downhill. There was reason to hurry, for both wanted to leave the terrible scene on the mountain top as far behind as possible. They reached the canyon by late afternoon of the second day, and rested, eating and chatting a little, but a heavy weight lay over both of them. They knew that a decision waited here. Return to Blackstone with the horrible tidings, or follow Finngard on north, in search of the darker power of Angmar.

For Blaine’s part, his mind was made up. Finn had gone to Angmar. He was sure of it, because of the mark in the stone, but even more because it was what he himself would do to protect his people, if all other warriors lay dead. Blaine had made an oath to Rachel to bring her husband home. He would see that oath through. Reinforcements were coming, and since they had not met them yet they had every chance of redirecting them north up the gully to join them on the journey. Most of all, though, Kurt felt a darkness was rising in Angmar, and as a ranger—perhaps the only ranger left within three hundred miles—that gave Blaine a great responsibility to drive it off. If Kurt was wrong and nothing had awoken in the Witch-king’s realm, then they would lose nothing by making the journey. But if something was there, Blaine had no business returning to hide in Rivendell once more. The sight of the fallen men burned in his chest. He did not know how they might be avenged. But he would not retreat if any such fate was creeping out from the wilderness, headed down to Blackstone, or to Bree, the halfling’s Shire, or any of the simple lands beyond.

Kurt, however, was not decided. He took the first watch, staring out over the blackness deep in thought. Blaine could not be confident where those thoughts would lead him.

It was not the elves duty to protect the lands of men. All his life Blaine had been taught as much. They had at times banded together at the very last to aid men in battle, and they were valiant fighters. But more often they were content to hide in their strongholds, singing tales of times gone by, while the world changed all about them. Even now as the dark lord Sauron rose in the south it was a band of hobbits that had gone off to defeat him. Hobbits! Council and help were offered, of course, and a few from Rivendell would surely ride to join the final battle. But more would wait behind, their hearts already half across the sea, biding time until they departed Middle-earth forever. ‘The time of the elves is ending’, Elrond had often said, and in moments of frustration Blaine had almost wished to say good riddance. But now he looked at Kurt, fair, and strong. Always touched by a great sadness—and yet the sadness was a beauty. He could finally understand what Elrond had meant. The elves were not made for this world; or if once they had been those ages were now all but gone. He would not fault Kurt, if he chose to return to Rivendell, or depart at last to the Undying Lands. But his heart split at the thought. It would be a sore blow to Middle-earth, when all the elves were gone west across the sea, and sorer still with Kurt among them.

It was only an hour or two from dawn that Kurt finally woke Blaine to take the watch. His face was set, and Blaine knew a decision had been made. For now, though, the elf wanted sleep and Blaine would have to wait a few more hours to learn his fate. He would go north without Kurt, if he must. He would seek the horror of Angmar alone. Blaine did not know if he was shaking at the thought, or at the cold morning air.

They ate breakfast together in silence. Slowly the sun climbed to touch the lip of the canyon, but within the gully the air was dim, and shadows pooled between many inlets of stone. At last Kurt finished his meal and turned to Blaine. He held his eye carefully.

“Whichever way we go, it is good that the reinforcements have not yet met us. We can leave some mark for them here, explaining what befell the rangers, and summoning them after us.”

“Agreed.” Blaine was determined to face this conversation as an equal.              

“Finngard, it appears, has escaped. There is reason to believe he journeyed north alone.”

“Agreed.”

“If a power has risen in Angmar, a power great enough to slay so many noble men, I do not feel right returning south.”

“Agreed.” Blaine waited. He knew now what was coming.

“And so I will go north. As far as I must to discover what has awoken there, and stop it spreading out into these lands. Even to the fortress of Carn Dûm, if need be.” He watched Blaine.

Blaine held Kurt’s gaze in turn. “I will come with you.”

For the first time, Kurt did not try to send Blaine away.

It was an easy enough path, following the gully north, and while here and there snow clung to the shadows the sun was bright, and by afternoon shone warm onto their faces. The rock beneath them was even enough, except where the last traces of some ancient stream gathered damp along the gully’s center, and there was little dirt, or weeds. It might have been a pleasant march, if the dark peaks did not still peer down on either side of them, reminding Blaine of the days before. As they went, Blaine half feared to meet some other force, or come upon a second ring of stone. He was still deeply shaken, he realized, from the events on the mountain peak. Even so, as they strayed further from the horrible scene Blaine began to feel a great gladness. He was not alone. Kurt had chosen to come; had chosen to make the journey _together_ , without even trying to send Blaine away. He walked a little behind the elf, taking comfort in Kurt’s strong shoulders and sure stride. Blaine felt a vague impulse to reach out to him, seek some sort of connection, as when they had held hands the days before. Here in the sunlight, though, such an act felt strange and out of place.

The gully slid north with little interruption, and by the second nightfall they had left the mountains behind and were even beginning to clear the range of foothills. They sat for the evening meal in an open place, and were once again near enough to see the long line of the Misty Mountains towering to the east. “We will make that way,” said Kurt. “If I have read the trail right that is the direction Finn headed. When we meet the foothills of the Misty Mountains we will follow them north to the mountains of Angmar. Then we will see what we must.”

It was a grim mission. The single line of horse prints was already days old and on foot Blaine felt very little hope of reaching Finn before something went wrong. Reinforcements would come, of course, he had faith in Elrond to send them, but already time felt dreadfully short. Blaine thought he finally understood what it meant to have very little hope. Still, compared to the mountains they had left behind the open country looked downright inviting. Trees were already springing up between the rocks: small bumps of green dropped throughout the thin snow, or skinny brown trunks quivering leafless in the wind. The way Kurt pointed was dusted by a green haze, washed to blue in the moonlight. Almost the joy of travel sprung up in Blaine again: a keen desire to explore wild places, to face the unknown, bravely, with Kurt at his side. But then the full meaning of ‘unknown’ flashed before him once more: a troll threatening death, a corpse twisted cold by some evil power. He shivered.

Kurt, it seemed, was watching him. He moved a little closer, not reaching for Blaine, but settling beside him so their hips pressed just close enough to sense each other’s warmth. They split the watches often, that night, taking turns sitting, or curling next to the other in the dark.

It was already the fourth of March, and outside the Ettenmoors the snow was melting. Tiny blades of green leapt up amid the brown, and here and there small buds peaked out from the tips of grey branches. The open lands slowly changed to forest: first firs, and then cedar, oak, and ash. Even as the forest deepened, the trees did not feel heavy. The woods seemed fresh, and alive, and for hours the companions picked easily along the needled earth beneath the boughs.

Amid the shelter of the forest, Kurt began to chat freely again for the first time in many days, telling Blaine long tales of the history of these woods. Already they were skirting the southern edge of the kingdom of Angmar, but few men had lived this near the mountains, except along the eastern border where outposts would meet the dwarves in trade. Long before that, though, these lands had been left to their own devices, and at times bands of elves would pass through, with no purpose but to wander in treeshade and starlight, in the fair places of the world.

“Have you been here before, then?”

“I haven’t. Often I have journeyed south of the Ettenmoors, and far west toward the sea, but this is my first time within these woods.”

Blaine smiled broadly at that.

Kurt saw his grin and looked amused. “What is it, Blaine?”

“Nothing. It’s just nice to finally be part of some ‘first’ for you.”

“Is it?”

Blaine couldn’t quite read his tone. “It is. Clearly it makes us equals. As travelers, I mean.”

“How lucky for me.”

Blaine listened for a moment to their footfalls hitting the earth, crunching leaves and needles where they peaked out in patches from the snow. Kurt said nothing more, but his mood seemed jovial enough. “So how do you like them, then? The woods?”

Kurt stopped a moment and looked around appraisingly. He smiled. “I think they’ll do quite well. Wouldn’t you agree, Blaine?”

Blaine stopped beside the elf. He lifted a hand to his chin and glanced about quizzically. “I’m not so sure I can agree with you there, Kurt. To your untrained eye, perhaps. But, if I may say so, I’ve seen a great many forests in my day. And I’m not sure I could rank this one any higher than a six.”

“Is that so?” Kurt was smiling.

“Oh yes. See there? Those branches? Why no moss, I ask you? Even the Trollshaws have no shortage of grungy damp moss!”

“My word Blaine, you’re right! There isn’t any moss, sunlight can pierce right through the canopy to warm us as we walk, the path isn’t nearly obscured enough by nettles…”

Blaine nodded seriously. “And with so few bogs about, I’d even guess there are no frogs, or slugs, or slimy things of any sort in these woods! If I didn’t know better I’d say there was nothing to be found but birds and rabbits, maybe deer—really only animals that are good for food!”

“How silly of me not to notice it before! Thank you, Blaine, for sharing the vast botanical observations of your five nights in the Trollshaws. With the help of your expertise I see now I should not have ranked this place any higher than a four.”

“A four and a half, if you’re feeling generous.”

Kurt grabbed his hand.

Blaine didn’t startle—he didn’t do anything—but every nerve in his body seemed instantly keyed upon that hand; Kurt’s long fingers wrapping around his glove, the barely-perceptible motion of his own thumb along Kurt’s knuckles. Kurt did not look down at their hands. He didn’t look at Blaine, or say anything at all. He just began to walk, again, and Blaine hurried to match his pace. Neither of them let go.

That night they had a fire. Not a thin, smoky fire of green twigs and singed leaves, but a real fire, dry and crackling, sparks elating high between the trees to meet the stars. The meat was gone, but Blaine had no doubt they would catch something fresh in the next day or two. For now, Kurt followed their bread and cheese with a surprisingly good cedar and berry tea. They sat close together, sipping from their bowls and watching the flames dance.

“You’re doing very well, you know,” Kurt said between sips.

“At what?”

“All this. Adventuring.” Kurt smiled warmly as he said it, not looking up from the flames.

Blaine grinned. “And you said I couldn’t do it.”

“I never said anything of the sort.”

“I believe your exact phrase was ‘the boy has no hope of keeping up with elves in the wild.’”

“Well,” Kurt teased, “I _have_ been going easy on you.”

“Oh I know. Stopping at night for both of us to sleep. Leaving live trolls about for me to attack.”

Kurt laughed: a bright chuckle that mingled, somehow, with the crackling of the fire. “This is what I mean. You aren’t just doing well at marching about all day, you’re cheerful. You actually want to be here. It’s been a long time, I think, since I’ve gone on a quest with someone like that.”

“Thank you. But I can’t quite believe that. Elves are always cheerful. In a lot of ways I’d say they’re the most cheerful creatures alive. Present company excluded, of course.” Kurt smirked. “Take Lindir, for example. Or Tathor or Elladan. They’re all far more cheerful than I am. Or do they stop being so merry once you get them outside the valley?”

Kurt sipped his tea again, pondering his answer carefully. “You are right, and yet not, I think. Elves can be merry as children, it’s true. But for all of that they are never _young_.”

“And that makes a difference?”

“These days I think it makes all the difference. The Eldar have a great gift, of course, or at least some do. To greet each day anew, and take joy in every beauty as one beholding it for the first time. That is what men mean, I think, when they call us ‘merry as children’. And there is no trickery in that joy, but all the while within us sorrows still build like lengthening shadows. Your friend Lindir is a good example. Did he ever tell you he fought in the War of the Last Alliance?”

“No, he didn’t.” Blaine was surprised to hear it. For some reason he’d always assumed Lindir was among the youngest in Rivendell—chatting merrily, making cheerful music in the hall. He would not have guessed the elf was that old. Even now he had trouble picturing him holding a sword instead of a flute.

“That is what I mean. Such sights are not undone. The delight of the elves is genuine, and child-like, but it is not youth. Youth is testy, and a little reckless. Elves are not so. We are not prone to sarcastic banter with our elders, for one thing.” Blaine hung his head with a coy smile. He could feel himself go a little red. “Nor are we very eager to risk our lives. By, just to pick an example at random, bolting off all alone to seek the dark lord’s nine most powerful servants.”

Blaine looked up smugly. “You said I showed great heart with the riders!”

“I knew I would regret admitting that.”

They both smiled. “Thank you, Kurt. I think. Maybe what I should say is I’ve learned to take what I can get when it comes to your compliments.” Beside him Kurt’s eyes danced. “For the record, though, I still do quite like elves. Some of them more than others.” His eyes fell a little. “Some of them very much more than I expected.”

Blaine felt Kurt’s arm stir. It nudged against his own, then slowly crept up to find Blaine’s hand. He took it, as he had many times before, but something seemed different. Charged. It almost hurt to leave the act unacknowledged, and yet Blaine did not know what to say.

Kurt turned to face him. He was very close. Blaine’s heart was beginning to race. Ever so slowly, Kurt leaned his forehead to press against Blaine’s temple. Blaine could feel Kurt’s breath on his cheek. The elf’s lips met his skin, then just barely parted, and Blaine’s whole body flooded with warmth. He leaned his head nearer to the elf, pressing closer to those lips, even as the rest of his body went stiff. Kurt felt terribly alive, and Blaine longed to lean closer yet was not sure he understood Kurt’s mind. Or his own. His voice wavered. “Is this what companions do, on journeys in the wild?”

“I don’t know.” It was not an answer.

“Kurt,” Blaine whispered.

“Maybe.” Kurt’s lips still rested open against Blaine’s skin. “Maybe some of them do. If it’s what they want.”

It was all too much, but Blaine could not lean away. Feebly, he squeezed Kurt’s hand tighter in reply.

For the first time, as he lay tucked against Kurt’s side that night, fire crackling and arms tangled together, Blaine was glad that for tonight at least the reinforcements had not arrived. He did not know what it was, that was happening between them, and he would not think of what it meant. All he knew as he held Kurt’s slender form against him was that he was not quite ready for it to end.

*     *     *

Even so, the next day wound on the same as always. Kurt did not hold his hand, as they walked. As the morning passed he would often call Blaine’s eye to some tree, or glimpse of the mountains ahead, occasionally lingering a hand on Blaine’s arm or back to lead him. Each time Blaine hoped it would grow into something more; a longer touch, a word of acknowledgement. It never did.

Their path began to veer north, along the mountain’s foothills. The trees pressed closer, after that, stirring nervously as they passed, and the wind turned cold. Blaine remained cheerful and eager, as the days wound on, taking interest in wherever the conversation drifted, but Kurt grew steadily quieter. Blaine couldn’t tell for sure, but he thought the elf looked sad.

*     *     *

 “Why do you never sing?” Blaine asked suddenly.

They were camped in a dry patch of earth beneath a bent oak, sheltered by many snaking branches. High above the clouds had parted, and a cold sky gleamed down at them. For the first night in many Kurt had drawn out his harp. From across the fire the tune he played was not happy, exactly, but hopeful: a simple line of chords adorned by occasional soft flourishes. Kurt raised an eyebrow at Blaine’s question, but said nothing.

“I know you can,” Blaine prodded. “All elves do. And you play, you hum. But I have never once heard you sing. Why?”

Kurt’s fingers stilled and his expression became suddenly guarded. It was a change Blaine had not seen for many days, and it made him instantly regret his question.

“I’m sorry,” he offered quickly. “I did not mean to offend you. Your playing is lovely. Please, don’t stop.” He looked away from the elf, smiling as unassumingly as he could, trying to think of some change in topic.

Beside him, though, Kurt remained very still. “Do you know the tale of the Fall of Gondolin?” Kurt asked at last.

Blaine nodded. “The hidden city, destroyed by Morgoth long ago, before the world was changed.”

“I sang on the white walls of Turgon,” Kurt said softly. “I sang of Yavanna and of Elbereth, the eve before the city fell. My brother died, that night, and my mother was slain in the morning. I have not sung again.”

“I’m sorry.” Blaine was not sure what else to say. This was not the conversation he had meant to have. And yet it seemed an act of generosity, for Kurt to share these things with him.

“It was a long age ago, now.” Kurt’s voice was quiet, but the tension remained. “I will see them again, on the shores of Valinor.”

“Why do you stay?” Blaine asked. He knew it was not proper to discuss such things, yet the question had been bothering him for many days. “Why don’t you sail with the others to the Undying Lands?”

“This is my home,” Kurt replied simply. “One day I will depart, when the time of the elves comes to its final end at last. But here are the leaves, and the Niphredil blossoms in springtime, and the line of the Misty Mountains against the dawn. Here my heart still dwells.”

“But here you do not sing.”

A soft change came over Kurt at that, but he gave no answer. He stared into the flames and began to strum the instrument again, a different melody, soft and sad, and the music seemed to weave upwards with the smoke, tangling in the branches and mingling with the faint light of the stars. Blaine listened, transfixed, as the melody waxed slowly louder. And then, all at once, Kurt’s voice rang out in a clear tone:

_Ai! laurië lantar lassi súrinen,_  
 _yéni únótimë ve rámar aldaron!_  
 _Yéni ve lintë yuldar avánier_  
 _mi oromardi lisse-miruvóreva_  
 _Andúnë pella, Vardo tellumar_  
 _nu luini yassen tintilar i eleni_  
 _ómaryo airetári-lírinen._  
  
 _Sí man i yulma nin enquantuva?_  
  
 _An sí Tintallë Varda Oiolossëo_  
 _ve fanyar máryat Elentári ortanë,_  
 _ar ilyë tier undulávë lumbulë;_  
 _ar sindanóriello caita mornië_   
_i falmalinnar imbë met, ar hísië_  
 _untúpa Calaciryo míri oialë._  
 _Sí vanwa ná, Rómello vanwa, Valimar!_  
  
 _Namárië! Nai hiruvalyë Valimar._  
 _Nai elyë hiruva. Namárië!_

His final note held long and sad, and then faded with the last tone of the harp. Blaine looked on filled with wonder, for in all his days in Elrond’s house he had never heard a voice so sweet or pure, lifted now for the first time in an age, and he was fearful to have beheld it. The wind caught through the trees, and Kurt raised his eyes to peer at the stars where they twinkled between the branches. Young he looked, and sorrowful, and his throat was lit by the glow of the fire, which danced across his chest, but the moon shone pale and cold upon his face. Blaine stared spellbound for a long while before he dared to speak.

“You sing of Valinor,” he whispered at last. “You sing of sailing to the West.”

“I do,” Kurt answered. “It is the Lament of Galadriel, which she wrote when first the Isle of Valimar was broken from this world, and our kind were sundered.” He sighed and met Blaine’s eyes. “It is the song of a people torn in two, doomed to choose between sorrows.”

“I am sorry,” Blaine breathed.

Kurt’s lips broke open into a sad smile. “But I suppose,” he offered, “that one doomed to choose between sorrows has lived with no shortage of loves.”

Blaine smiled back softly. “I suppose you’re right.”

Kurt dropped his gaze. Something seemed to spark between them, to the crackling of the fire, and Blaine wanted to reach out for Kurt, to hold him firm to the earth and ground him in the soil, and the forest, and the warmth of his touch. “You are remarkable,” he said instead.

“Am I?” Kurt whispered.

“You are.” There was no insincerity in Blaine’s words. “I always used to think that you were rude. How you would close yourself off, or snap at people. Well. How you would snap at me. But that isn’t it at all.”

Kurt stiffened as he stared into the flames, and Blaine grew a little nervous. He wanted to say this right.

“It’s not that you think you’re better than us all. Not really. It’s that you love so deeply, and the sorrow is ready to undo you. That’s why you guard yourself, and—and maybe that’s why you were always guarding me.”

Kurt made no movement, but Blaine though he saw the harp tremor in his hand. With a deep breath Blaine stood and moved closer to the elf, dropping next to him on the earth and reaching out to touch Kurt’s fingers with a nervous hand. Kurt said nothing, so Blaine did not draw back. Slowly he traced the elf’s long, white fingers with his own, running his thumb against the edge of Kurt’s, reveling in the smooth, strong skin. He wished for Kurt to say something. There was an energy caught around them, in the dark. It intoxicated Blaine like the words of Kurt’s song, and he leaned his body to press against Kurt’s side. Kurt inhaled sharply, and at last clutched Blaine’s hand with his own.

“Son of Andros,” he whispered, “I do not know what it is you wish.”

“I wish for nothing,” said Blaine, and it was a lie, but what his heart longed for he did not understand.

Kurt let go of Blaine’s hand and ran his arm instead around Blaine’s shoulders, holding him close. “Be still,” the elf whispered. “Sleep. Tomorrow will come too soon, and we have far to go.”

Blaine’s heart fell as he nodded, and yet Kurt showed no sign of letting go. He leaned into Kurt’s chest, and the fragrance of him, even rugged in the wild, filled Blaine’s lungs with spring, and with hope. “May I?” he whispered, and he pushed gently at Kurt’s chest. The elf smiled down at him and nodded. Laying their cloaks upon the grass they made a bed together and held each other long into the night, until at last the embers faded into ash.

*     *     *

The next day they caught Finngard’s trail again. They had never fully lost it, for the easiest route through the woods was clear enough, but now they found a clear line of prints in the mud. They were at least a week old, for on foot there was no competing with a ranger horse, and it seemed he had rode at his full strength. Here and there Blaine spotted another print in the mud that seemed older still, but whose it might be he could not guess.

They ventured to go a little faster. To their right the Misty Mountains were close, now, and dreadfully high. The forest crept green and thick along their base, but each peak was topped in glistening snow. The trail of hooves led almost due north toward the mountains of Angmar where the jutted west from the base of the Misty Mountains and led off to Carn Dûm, and the Witch-king’s fortress of old. It would be many days, still, before they reached that place, if indeed Finn did not accomplish the task without them. Blaine could not imagine what awaited them there, but wherever the reinforcements were, he wished they would meet them soon. He did not like the idea of coming on the power of Angmar alone, even with both Kurt and Finn beside him. Whatever the final battle would be, he knew they would need a host of elves to see it through.

For two more nights they journeyed, until they found themselves within a dark grove of withered trees. Even beneath the boughs the wind was bitter, for they were far north, and about them the twisted bark seemed to splinter and fold into wrinkled faces. A little before noon they were marching bent, and quiet, when all at once Kurt spotted something: a stone wall, jutting silently through a mass of shrub and lingering snow. “Aye!” He shouted, sprinting forward. Blaine hurried to follow.

Ahead was a slab of grey stone, about chest height, but steadily shrinking for a few dozen yards to their left until swallowed by the earth. To their right, though, it stretched slowly higher, disappearing between the trees then suddenly soaring up a mile or more away to join the mountainside. Its surface was pocked and worn, but altogether straight, as though smoothed some thousand years ago and left to weather. Something made Blaine’s steps soften. It seemed a hallowed place.

“Look!” Kurt whispered. He ran to the wall, and drew a bare finger along a thin scratch of runes across its center. They were no wider than his thumbnail, rough and terribly ancient, but of a different character than the pagan marks on the mountain top. As he stepped closer Blaine could see clearly they were dwarvish, though the form of many was changed from the marks used today, and beyond his skill to read. As he looked off along the wall to the right the line seemed to grow larger, and more certain. A whisper leading toward the mountain.

“We have come further than I realized,” Kurt said, stepping back to regard the rock face more fully. There was a wild awe in his voice. “This wall marks the entrance to Mt. Gundabad, where it is said that Durin the father of dwarves first awoke, in the early dawns of the world. These stones are older than any I have seen. Older even than the walls of Gondolin, before they fell into the sea. They were carved when the elves were still awakening, and the dwarves were young, and all deep places fresh, and ready to be hewn.” He motioned to the right. Two peaks rose high into the air, and from between them peered a third; desperately high and cold it looked, great grey towers of stone untouched in the pale sun. “That mountain was the heart of their people, Blaine,” whispered Kurt. “Just as Númenor was yours, or Valinor mine. But it was forsaken long ago.”

Blaine looked to their right curiously. The rockface carried on flat, and high, a great finger of the mountain pointing west. Untouched, it looked, yet even as it stretched a mile or more into the sky to meet the mountain, the front was still hewn to a perfectly straight line. It was a marvel of craftsmanship. Across it fell a long shadow. Blaine didn’t know why, but he longed to investigate. Something about the place felt wholesome, and mighty to behold.

Kurt seemed to guess his thoughts. “I think,” he said slowly, “that it might indeed be wise to follow the cliff, at least through to the mouth of the pass. Finngard came near here, and the gates of Gundabad are a landmark still known to rangers. He might have left some sign. What is more, though, now that we are here I would dearly love to look upon the mountain. It is old, Blaine. Terribly old.”

There was a light in Kurt’s eyes, and it ignited Blaine’s own curiosity more fully. “Come on, then!” Blaine stepped ahead, grateful for something he might offer Kurt. “Let’s take a look.”

The runes became more elaborate, as they walked, the line of letters ever growing thicker, and soon surrounded by strange designs and grand dwarven figures watching mutely from the stone. As they progressed, the straight wall was clearly inset from the original cliff’s edge, for in front of it rose tall pillars, terribly high and square, some reaching many dozen yards above them. Blaine’s steps slowed. They had wandered into the shadow of the mountain, and he felt dreadfully tiny. Beside him even Kurt seemed small. It was disconcerting.

“There!” Kurt cried suddenly. Ahead of them, perpendicular to the towering wall but hid by a few straggling trees, a flat panel of stone was hewn out from the base of the mountain. It stretched at least fifty yards high, up into the sunlight, but it’s face was narrow. Before the base stood a tall stone figure, bearded and grim, ax in hand. “It is Durin,” Kurt whispered, “Guarding the entrance to his realm.” Then Blaine saw that within the narrow panel was a door, square and bordered by many runes, but it was shut with stone. Kurt stared upward in awe, casting aside his cloak to stand exposed beneath the statue, and cliff face, and door.

Blaine felt he had intruded on something personal. He did not know why an ancient work of dwarves would resonate so deeply with an elf. Something to do with the place’s age, it seemed, or perhaps Kurt’s longing to come upon the home of the elves across the sea. Blaine could not deny the majesty of the place, but even while the sun shone against the rock face high above them, it was strangely cold in the shadow of the mountain. The air was still, and something foul seemed to linger. Yet beside him Kurt continued to stare upward, unalarmed.

Blaine forced his eyes down from the towering statue and runes. Beneath them the earth and weeds looked a little too flat, as though trampled by more than snow. “Kurt,” Blaine whispered cautiously. “Kurt, something has come through here, not many days passed.”

Kurt looked down as though remembering Blaine for the first time in many minutes. He bent to his knees and drew a pinch of earth to his nostrils. Standing in alarm he drew his sword a few inches from its sheath, then let out a breath of relief. “There were orcs here, you are right, it was not long ago. But they are not close by, now.”

His eyes lifted again to the magnificent carvings about them, and Blaine could read his disgust that so hallowed a place would be defiled by evil things. Yet Blaine’s attention was elsewhere. He had been sure Finn would come this way. Was that before the orcs had come? He looked around uneasily. The rockface loomed above them, and the cliff to their left, but to the right the base of the mountain lay exposed and unadorned: cluttered knots of rock and tree. He began to walk that way, a little frantically. He could half-hear Kurt following behind him.

Then he saw a shape, lying dark against the base of a tree. He ran forward, keeping a little distance. An orc body, decomposing over many weeks. He hurried past. If Finn had been attacked that would be the end of Rachel’s hope. There was no way even a ranger chieftain could defend against an entire troop of orcs so near the mountains. Blaine wished with a sudden despair that the reinforcements had already reached them. He did not like the thought of being caught in a similar predicament, trapped in the wild with orcs about. Even Kurt had his limits. He ran further, weaving between trees and boulders. A few more orcs lay about, their blood still oddly fresh where it stained the earth. It could not have many days, then, that Finn had battled the troop. Strange, the first body had seemed long dead. He stopped short. There, tucked behind a tall stone, he saw what he had feared: a fallen brown shape stretched out into the open, hoof, tail, and twisted leg. Blaine ran forward. Finn’s horse, and what hope might he have had without it. Yet it felt wrong. There was something far too familiar about—

“Aranna!”

All at once Blaine was at the animal’s side, frantically kneeling by her flank. Kurt was running too, a little ahead. Blaine heard him call that there was another, and yet he couldn’t look up. It was Aranna, her neck, her face, how could she have passed them, where were the others from Rivendell? He curled his hand in her mane. Her hair was dreadfully cold. He could sense the wound under her belly; there was blood crusted down her side. He did not want to look. He didn’t understand.

Kurt’s hand was on his shoulder. “Blaine,” he said softly. He looked up at the elf. He could feel tears cutting at his eyes, but Kurt’s expression was grim. “There is another rider, Blaine. Just ahead. He and his horse have been dead for many weeks. He is half buried in stones. Do you understand what I am saying, Blaine? We haven’t been tracking Finn.”

“I don’t understand.” It couldn’t be. Rachel had gone to get help. She had promised.

“Rachel did not take Aranna to Rivendell.” Kurt said softly. “She set out after Finn alone, passing us even before we reached the Ettenmoors. It is her we have been following, even as she followed Finngard. Here she found him slain, and while she buried him she was attacked.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know. She slayed many, Blaine. There is no body. She may have escaped.”

Blaine burrowed his head in Aranna’s fur. His horse was dead. Finn was gone. The reinforcements were not coming and Aranna was dead. “How could she?” Blaine looked up at Kurt, feeling desperately betrayed. “How could she abandon her duty to us, to the rest of her people, only to chase after one man in the wild? It isn’t right! I don’t understand!”

“Don’t you?” Kurt eyed him keenly.

Blaine swallowed and looked away. What Blaine had done was different. He’d followed after Kurt to help the mission. Hadn’t he?

“At any rate,” Kurt offered, “I think perhaps that I can understand.” Was Kurt still talking about Blaine following him? Or was he perhaps referencing his own feelings? Even while his anger raged he felt his pulse skip nervously. “In either case,” Kurt said softly, coaxing Blaine back to his feet, “of one thing we can now be certain. There are no reinforcements coming. We are totally alone.”


	8. Gates of Ice

They completed Finn’s burial with Blaine’s knife drawn and set before them, always keeping one eye on the blade for a blue glow warning orcs. The bodies of many lay decaying about them, those slain by Finn, already weeks dead, and an even greater number killed more recently by Rachel. Blaine was confident she had escaped. Even without a horse, such a victory showed her more than strong enough to find her way home in the wild, so long as she was not too gravely wounded.

The burial was a hurried business, but the sun had looped overhead and was beginning to lower to the west before they were done. Blaine did not want to think how long it had taken Rachel to begin the task, all alone and no doubt heartbroken. A sudden thought of Kurt’s body limp on the ground, half-covered in stones flashed before him. He quickly pushed it aside. His anger at Rachel was already giving way to pity. And yet with no reinforcements coming it left them with a bitter choice.

“ _Alámenë_ ,” whispered Kurt, as they stood together over the pile of stones for the final time. Blaine bowed his head. It felt proper to bury Finngard, especially after having to leave the others exposed on the mountain top. He did not know the man, but there was still a kinship there. This was a leader of Blaine’s people, who had somehow escaped the terror of the Ettenmoors and set off alone to defend his people. It was a noble deed. Even as he thought it, Blaine realized that he himself had made a similar choice. He swallowed hard.

Leaving Aranna’s side proved an almost harder task, though Blaine was ashamed to realize it. There was neither time nor reason to bury her, but Blaine’s heart tore to think of orcs or any other wild thing disturbing her. They stood a few moments in silence by her side. Blaine did not reach to touch her again. It felt like so long ago that he’d tied her up in the dark so he could scamper off to fight black riders. She’d always given him more trust than he’d earned. He hadn’t even said goodbye, before leaving her to Rachel. She had deserved so much better.

They left as much distance from the mountain as they could before setting up camp. Kurt did not dare to play his harp, and they opted against a fire. The forest looked the same as ever, gentle pathways and fresh trees, yet  with the sight of fallen orcs again in his mind Blaine couldn’t shake the sense that something unwholesome was looming nearby, always only barely out of sight.

The dwarven wall had marked the northeast corner of Angmar, and now they had to journey deeper into the Witch-king’s realm. The Witch-king was away south serving Saruon, Blaine reminded himself many times. Whatever power had claimed his realm, whatever it was that threatened the lands about, it was not the Witch-king himself. Some lesser being, that had not shown itself until the Witch-king was centuries gone, and Sauron had drawn all forces south. Whatever it was, it was a coward. A coward that could summon wights, and scare off trolls, and inspire the cold death of thirty-eight fighting Dúnedain. But a coward none the less.

Blaine offered to take the first watch, and stayed awake for longer than his share. It was Kurt’s strength had kept Blaine going, after he saw Aranna. To be honest, Kurt had probably done the hardest part of Finngard’s burial. By then Blaine had been in a sort of daze that was only now beginning to lift. The night was clear, and a full moon gazed coolly upon the forest, casting long shadows all about. It lit Kurt’s face, while he slept, but in the pale glow the elf looked eerie. Blaine had decided some time ago that Kurt looked youngest while he slept, yet tonight it was not so. It was an odd thing; at first Blaine assumed that Kurt’s age showed most in his eyes, which at times seemed as great wells of wisdom, or of sorrow. But his eyes also showed a sort of life and energy that had only grown clearer over the past few weeks. With them closed his white skin looked pure and ancient in the moonlight, like a statue long ago fallen to the ground, fair and cold. It almost reminded Blaine of Finn’s stiff form where he lay beneath the rocks. He clenched his jaw and forced himself to look away.

They had not even talked about turning back, Blaine realized. His promise to Rachel was fulfilled when she had found Finn herself. Their promise to Elrond had been satisfied two weeks ago. There was no duty, now, holding either of them to this road. Only a suspicion of dangers growing far away, and no one else near enough to meet them. Blaine tucked his knees to his chin and bundled his cloak tight across his legs. In Rivendell this was exactly the sort of mission he’d begged Elrond to let him take. He should be glad of it—and he was glad of it—a chance to serve, to prove his name, even to die if need be. Except. Blaine’s eyes fell back to Kurt’s sleeping form. The elf hardly stirred as he breathed. Blaine did not understand what he felt for Kurt, beyond his growing need not just to prove himself, but to understand Kurt, and to be somehow dearer to him even as Kurt’s presence became ever more prominent in Blaine’s own mind. Blaine almost felt that it was the promise of Kurt’s companionship that most bound him to continuing the mission, even as it was the hope of Kurt’s companionship that most made him wish they could turn back.

Blaine woke to a hand on his shoulder and handful of bread. The fresher loaves from Blackstone were gone, as was the cheese. They were back to travelling bread from Rivendell, still good after several weeks, but tasting dreadfully dense. Blaine ate slowly. “We should hunt,” he suggested as he got to his feet and shrugged his bag onto his back. Kurt only nodded. It seemed neither of them were overly eager, now, to reach their destination.

They wound up moving only a few miles that day, Blaine catching two rabbits in the meantime and Kurt harvesting three squirrels, a nest of eggs and a quail. They set up camp while there was still light in the sky, choosing a place sheltered by trees to mask their fire, but still very near the mountains. The eggs had to be eaten first, and the rest cooked and saved. The smell of meat they couldn’t eat put them both in an unpleasant mood, which was only amplified when Kurt stomped out the fire as soon as the cooking was done. They should probably move on a ways from where the flames had been just in case orcs were watching, but dusk was already fading, and they both felt reluctant to bother. Blaine wanted to hear Kurt’s harp, or one of his stories, but didn’t know how to ask. They sat with a little distance between them, and Kurt looked miserable. Once the fire was out he didn’t say a word to Blaine, if indeed he remembered Blaine was there at all.

All that week, they marched through forest, never venturing far from the line of mountains on their right. The trees grew gnarled, many with twisted trunks that creaked forebodingly in the cold, others wielding thin branches that lashed at them as they passed. Between their stems the mountains sighed grey and unmoving. From the sun Blaine guessed they were veering ever more westward, and yet the sun was always too small in the sky, and the moon had reached its height and began to wane once more. The weather was turning cold.

Of more concern, though, Kurt was becoming dreadfully quiet. He was worried about the task, Blaine imagined, and he didn’t blame him. More than once, late in his nightly watch, Blaine had felt an eerie sense about them in the woods. There was no sound, or eyes, and yet that had almost that made it worse. Lately Blaine’s fears drifted more toward the horrible spirit on the mountain top than the dead orcs by the dwarven gate. It was enough to make anyone uncomfortable.

And yet Kurt’s silence seemed deeper. He had not been like this before, not when facing orc, troll, or wight. Something within him seemed changed, and try as Blaine could to lighten to mood, despite all of Kurt’s nods and wry smiles a light seemed gone from his eyes. One night Blaine woke  to see Kurt staring straight above him at the stars. Kurt had sat like that for nearly an hour, oblivious to Blaine watching him, seeming almost in another world. Kurt looked most beautiful and tender in the starlight. Irresistible, even. And yet also most sorrowful. Blaine did not know how to lift his spirits, or even what had changed. He wondered if perhaps he had been the cause of it. He didn’t know what about that thought made his belly flip uneasily.

For all his silence, Kurt had not stopped touching Blaine, but it was always as though with a heavy heart. His fingers would linger on Blaine’s hand while they sat quietly in the darkness, even straying now and then to Blaine’s brow, or jaw. It was tender, caring, but always ended too soon and without a word. Blaine rarely felt he had permission to initiate touches of his own.

And so they walked. Gradually the forest thinned to a windy plain of buckthorn and thistles, while beside them the mountains towered ever blacker and more eerie. Snow groped down each mountainside, catching in every crevice and almost reaching to the wide lands about. It was a strange thing to head north in spring, caught always in a perpetual melting. In Rivendell by now the snowdrops would be blooming, and the falls would be roaring from the thaw. Here winter felt unending. Blaine became determined to make the best of things. He remarked on the scenery as they passed, or told scraps of stories while they ate. Each night he offered to take the first watch, and some nights, Kurt let him.

On the twelfth night from Mount Gundabad there was snow. It was almost a relief, at first, for the wind died back and the forest was washed clean and magical, everything white, and muffled, and still. By noon, though, Blaine’s right boot had soaked through at the heel, not so much cold as wet and chaffing. He dearly wished for a pair of stockings that hadn’t been worn a dozen times since their last washing.

The good news, though, was that even next to the Mountains of Angmar Kurt confirmed snow was reason to risk a fire. Blaine spent much of the day imagining it, warm flame and hot water. He remembered the night, many days ago now, that Kurt had sung for him in the magic of the firelight. Often he found himself replaying that song, and wishing for the day it would be safe to hear Kurt sing again. Blaine watched Kurt’s legs stepping softly through the snow while he led the way. Whether it was the brighter look of the land or simply some memory triggered by the change of scenery, Kurt’s mood seemed a little lighter, today. As they walked Blaine plotted how he might ask Kurt for a story tonight, or offer one of his own. They were cold, and far from home, with no certainty of what this quest would lead them to. If Kurt needed a human around to provide cheer, then that’s what Blaine would do.

The brush had grown perilously thin, and even with a fire on the agenda Kurt agreed going nearer to the mountains would be safest. After wood was gathered they spent an hour marching through the outskirts of rock until they found a sheltered space, hedged between a few large stones and shielded from the worst of the snow. As the fire blazed what was left soon melted, and the two of them sat close by each other, warming their hands and feet.

Blaine considered asking Kurt more about the lands ahead, but all around the night was dark, and for now the fire was warm. He wanted to talk about happier things.

“I think I miss my pillow most,” he offered.

Kurt raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“It was between the pillow or Erestor’s ale. It would have been the music, but we’ve had that not too long ago, and while it wasn’t roast goose out here those squirrels tasted as good as any meal I’ve had. But my pillow, Kurt. Plump and down and clean in a fresh silk case—” Blaine sighed dramatically. Kurt stared at the fire and said nothing, but Blaine thought he saw him just barely start to smile. He watched Kurt’s lips a little longer than perhaps he should have before returning the question. “So. What about you?”

“The water.”

Kurt hadn’t even stopped to think about it. Blaine nodded but didn’t hide his confusion. “Fair enough. But if I can let you in on a bit of a secret—and I really don’t mean to make you jealous—to humans water tends to taste the same just about anywhere.”

Kurt smiled then, his body loosening a little. “No, I mean the sound of it from the falls. I miss waking up to it each morning. Or wandering up the valley late at night, when the stars are out, and watching their light catch across the river.” He shrugged. “I suppose that was dreadfully predictable, wasn’t it. An elf who loves stars and water. But there you have it.”

Blaine laughed. “Said to a man who loves sleep and beer.” As Kurt smiled Blaine had a tremendous longing to touch him. Kurt’s arm pressed against his own, and Blaine wandered his opposite fingers toward it, resting them soft and unmoving just above Kurt’s wrist. As he did he heard a faint intake of breath. He was tempted to look away, and yet Kurt was ignoring the touch enough for the both of them. He wanted to talk about this. He needed to. And yet he did not know how.

Kurt shifted just a little, and Blaine glanced down. Kurt’s palm was resting open on his knee. Was it invitation or resignation? Perhaps both.

Blaine removed his glove. He reached forward and took Kurt’s hand.

Kurt did not draw away, closing his fingers carefully and running his thumb across Blaine’s knuckles.

“If you could have your way,” Blaine offered quietly, “What would happen after all of this?”

Kurt still faced the fire. “We would arrive at the Witch-king’s tower to find it already deserted, easily bar the doors forever, and head back to Rivendell.”

“And then what?”

“What do you mean?” It was not a real question.

“Would you speak to me, in Rivendell?” Blaine shuffled closer until his crossed legs pressed against Kurt’s.

“Yes. You are my friend.” There was no energy in his response. Blaine squeezed his palm a little desperately, and at last Kurt looked up. His jaw was tight. “Alright, Blaine. If you could have _your_ way what would happen next?”

“Well. First we’d have a glorious victory at the mountain top.”

“Of course,” smiled Kurt.

“And then a leisurely march home. We’d stop at Blackstone to give them the news. And then we’d take our time, walking back to Rivendell. We’d have campfires every night, and sing, and you’d tell me tales, and I’d listen to every word. And maybe together we would start writing a grand song of our own adventure.”

“Could we include a lute part? I’d like that.”

“Of course. Harp and lute and two voices. A duet.”

Kurt nodded approvingly. “It would be fitting.” He leaned a little closer to Blaine, but his face remained sad. “And then what?”

“Well, we’d get back to Rivendell. We’d be greeted as heroes, of course.”

“I expect there would be a great banquet.”

“Oh yes, several. And Elrond would offer us seats on his right and left at the high table, but I’d opt to sit next to you instead.”

“That’s very kind.”

“We would spend a whole week just eating and drinking. And talking, of course. And then.” Blaine went quiet. Kurt’s hand was cold, but it did not draw away. Blaine swallowed. He could not meet Kurt’s eyes, but he had to say it, he had to. “And then I would marry you. In the autumn, when the leaves first change to yellow, but before the wind turns cold. We would stand on the pavilion, by the near-bridge, and the river would fall behind us, and you would dress in blue and silver for winter, and I in red and gold for summer, and we would join together, like any elven man and maiden. And I would pledge myself to you. And then we would live out our days happily in chambers all our own, or a house some ways down the river, maybe, and you would sing as often as you like, and I’d ride off hunting for deer every spring and grouse every fall and I would never say goodbye to you for as long as I live.”

He finished in a rush and went motionless. All around it was dreadfully silent.

“I see you are still the most reckless man I know,” Kurt replied softly.

“You think I show great heart.” It was barely a whisper. Blaine still could not manage to look up. He knew what it was for an elf to bind himself to a mortal, giving up the immortality of the Eldar. He did not know what it meant for an elven man to love a man, but he could guess it had more to do with shamed secrecy than fair autumn weddings. It was only a dream, and every bit of it far too much to ask.

Then Kurt squeezed his hand, and moved his other hand to cover it. “It is a worthy plan, son of Andros.”

Blaine looked up. Kurt’s face was shining. Sorrow, as always, rested in his eyes, and yet it was a kind sorrow, almost drowned in the light of Kurt’s smile. And then Blaine watched in disbelief as Kurt leaned forward, extracting a hand to cup Blaine’s jaw. Blaine’s eyes fluttered closed as their lips met. Slowly, the questions and the sadness drifted somewhere out of reach.

They lay close to each other, that night. Huddled under each other’s cloaks as they had before, but now often interspersed with gentle kisses and soft words. Even in the shadow of the mountains Blaine felt safer bundled in Kurt’s arms than he could remember ever having felt before. Kurt’s skin was soft, and his mouth was hot, and with each caress a light whirled through Blaine’s belly and warmed his chest.

*     *     *

Snow fell, ruins sprung up along the mountainside, and Blaine was in love. They could not let go of each other, even while their clasped hands shivered. He couldn’t seem to stop glancing over at Kurt, though around them dark crannies in the rocks or broken pillars of stone held whispers of foul things. As the third day drew on, they reached the ruins of an ancient city. The broken foundations of tiny homes strung out in rows from the mountainside, and gates or dreary figures of stone ascended silently from the snowbanks. Kurt became quiet once again, but he gripped Blaine’s hand tightly, sometimes leaning against him desperately or stopping to catch him in a hug or wordless kiss.

They picked between the ruins for a mile or more, at times the snow heaping almost to their knees, and their legs grew miserably damp. The wind howled wearily, and the ruins wandered ever nearer to the mountain, until they fused indistinguishable from the mountainside itself.  At last they rounded a high cleft in the stone, and as the lifting of a veil the long stair of Carn Dûm peered down at them from the mists.

Perilously tall it soared, stretching a mile or more up the mountainside until finally swallowed by the smoking clouds above. Each mighty step was cut seamless from the very shoulder of the mountain, unadorned by fence or rail, and stretching ominously wide. Almost it looked that half a dozen horses could march abreast, if they had strength enough to leap from stair to stair, for the whole of it seemed tailored for some giant thing long passed from memory. High above, beyond Blaine’s sight, they would find at last the abandoned fortress of the Witch-king. If indeed they could reach it, for the stair was choked with great drifts of snow, and the grey stones gleamed with ice.

They made camp that night a little ways west of the base of the stair, tucked against the rockface, but exposed on two sides to the wind. More than once while he waited for sleep Blaine thought he could hear sounds from deep inside the mountain, the clanging of metal chains or the thrum of drums. If Kurt heard it too, he did not say a word. There was no wood for a fire, so they rested propped together against the rocks. Blaine tucked his head in the smooth cleft of Kurt’s neck, and for hours into the night Kurt ran gloveless fingers to and fro beneath Blaine’s shirt. They needed sleep, maybe more now than ever, and yet Blaine could feel Kurt’s urgency. He whispered against Kurt’s skin that he loved him, he _loved_ him. He was sure Kurt heard, but the elf did not reply.

All Blaine’s life he had longed to be respected, successful, worthy of inclusion in songs and tales. As they marched together up the stair, though, he found himself thinking of turning back altogether. It was a mammoth effort to hoist himself from ledge to ledge, for each stair rose higher than his knees. Before long his muscles felt strained to tearing, and even within his gloves the heels of his hands grew raw. Kurt tried to lead the way, often tugging Blaine up by the arm, or helping his feet find grip against the ice, but soon the two of them were struggling together to clear paths through the hills of snow, unsure where each step rose into the next until it stubbed their toes or cut against their legs. Worst of all, though, Blaine worried about the peril that awaited. Almost overnight, it seemed, he had discovered how very much he had to lose.

He could take Kurt’s hand, and pull him away to the south. Straight back to Rivendell. Elrond would understand, surely. Or  if not Rivendell then somewhere new. Somewhere all their own. Along the ocean, maybe, where Kurt had so often wandered, in centuries past, waiting for the day he would sail to be with his family. Blaine longed to see him by the water. To stretch him out in the sand; to build a fire on the shore and sing with him on summer nights, of Valinor, or Gondolin before it fell. Of Rivendell too, and the years they spent together unacknowledged. He could build them a home himself, spend a summer chopping logs, fitting them one upon another. It would not be what Kurt deserved. But he remembered how at home the elf had looked in Rachel’s hut at Blackstone. Maybe Kurt would not mind. It would be theirs. For as long as Kurt chose to share it with him. A lifetime. And afterward—afterward was still a very long time away.

Ahead of Blaine, Kurt clamored steadily on up the stair. Blaine dearly wished to know Kurt’s thoughts. His face was fixed as always, but Blaine could tell he looked terribly weary. Would he follow, if Blaine called out to him, took his hand and pulled him back? Were there words that might convince him to abandon this task? Would he look at Blaine the same if they did?

Eventually Blaine felt he could carry on no further. Kurt offered him rest even before he had to ask, handing him water, already half-frozen in its flask, and kissing him softly when he had finished. All around the wind was moaning, and vapors of snow spun wildly across the drifts. Behind them the stair dropped far away into the white lands below, masked in a grey cloud. For many minutes Blaine sat panting, and Kurt did not speak. Kurt seemed to be drifting away again, as he had before. Blaine didn’t know if it was fear of their journey, or fear of what came afterward. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Beneath them, from deep in the mountain, Blaine felt rather than heard a distant booming crash. Kurt smiled reassuringly, but it did not reach his eyes.

*     *     *

They struggled on. High above the clouds the sun dipped lower, and a grey twilight fell. Blaine felt as though wading through a daze. His legs were past feeling, and the world shivered at the edge of focus as he blinked rapidly against the snow. Then all at once the long stair came to its end. They were plunging through a thick wall of snow, treading with arms and legs as though pushing through a mighty gale. At last, the drift broke, and they landed panting on a wide ledge in a pale starlight. Gaping before them, half-hid by thick swarms of snow, a black mound lifted from the shadows. They had come at last to the gates of Carn Dûm, once a mighty stronghold of the men of old, but long ago demented by a foul witchcraft, and left in rot. Large it stood, and perilous, erupting from a great yawn in the mountain like a black scab, burnt, and rusting. The front was ribbed by many spikes, but behind the outer wall thick horns twisted high into the night, piercing the snow and staining the mountain. No light shone from wall nor tower, for there were no windows. Straight ahead, spilling a black stench across the snow, it’s black mouth gaped open, roofed with many rotting teeth.

Blaine staggered, reaching for Kurt’s arm. The elf’s jaw clenched, and his eyes fell closed.

There was no question of entering the fortress in the dark. Arm in arm they struggled a ways along the ledge, crouching as best they as they could manage to keep out of sight. The terrace edges were rugged where they were cut out from the mountain, and the companions huddled quickly into the first crevice they could find. They would sleep, if they could, and when daylight came venture forward to find what there was to be found.

They huddled close again that night, shivering while flurries howled about them. Kurt gripped Blaine so tightly it almost hurt, yet Blaine was glad of it. The elf was warm, and the fold of rock kept back the worst of the wind. Still, Blaine’s teeth chattered and he would not risk more than a whisper. “Are you afraid?”

Kurt looked up, as if woken from some distant memory. “Of course.” He was quiet a moment, then added as though an afterthought: “Did you know we fought for thirty-six hours, on the walls of Gondolin? And I was afraid. I was so afraid, for everything that I held dear.”

“I’m sorry,” replied Blaine, but Kurt continued as though he had not heard.

“Thirty-six hours of fear. And then we sang songs of it for an age.”

Blaine watched quietly. At last Kurt shifted to meet Blaine’s eyes. “The harp refrain,” he said, “In the Lay of Gondolin, as it is played in Elrond’s house. Between each third and fourth verse, while the voices linger but before the drum. Do you know it?”

Blaine nodded. The Lay was among the loveliest songs he had heard, and the refrain was haunting, especially as Kurt played it: intricate beyond measure and full of sorrow far exceeding even the lyrics of the tale.

“It took me forty-two years to perfect it.”

Blaine stared, quiet and curious. Music seemed to come so easily to Kurt, and yet he could understand. “It is a personal story for you, of battle and of loss. Of course you wanted to do it justice.”

Kurt shook his head. “You don’t understand. Forty-two years immortalizing not two days of battle. But that was not the end. Even though it was perfected I continued to tinker with it, and I tinker with it still, I must, for _I am still here_. And so for a long age of this world we have sung the tale of thirty-six hours of war, until the art has outshone the deed, both in endurance and in skill.” He stared up at the sky, talking now as though to himself. “‘The stench of the beasts burned foul on unmarred air’, so the verse goes, but was there really such a smell? I do not remember. I don’t remember any of it, save what the verses we wrote have stained immortal in my mind. And so it shall remain, for each waking day strays in and out of memory, and I am so very tired.”

Small he looked, then, and it startled Blaine to see it, like some young elf-child left alone in the wild, too stubborn to seek those who had forsaken him, too forsaken to make a home that was his own. Blaine wished dearly to comfort him, but could not think of anything to say.

*     *     *

It was early in the morning, and the sun had still not risen, when the enemy came upon them. There was a great clatter at the gate, and both companions leapt up reaching for their swords. The snow had stopped, and around them the clouds were breaking, but there was no moon. Blaine squinted into the darkness. A black form was sagging through the snow, and then another. “Orcs,” Kurt whispered, almost too quietly for Blaine to hear. “Stay close.”

Together they crept along the edge of the pavilion, keeping near to the jagged wall of rock, but they had been to slow. There was a vile shout from the stones behind them and a half dozen orcs leapt from the shadows even as a far larger troop ushered out through the gaping doors. Blaine spun around with a clash of steel on iron. He could hear Kurt behind him, charging toward the larger troop. He was alone then, but would be protected from behind. There were just these six. Surely he could hold off six, until Kurt could return to help him.

It was no easy task. Within a blink they had surrounded him, and he had to lunge constantly at one or another to keep them off. Luckily, they seemed a little timid. He spun foot over foot, striking one blade and then the next, until one cowered back far enough that he could escape the circle. After that, things became simpler. The first struck too slowly, and he impaled its chest between blows. The second’s blade was pitifully short, and Blaine was able to hack at its arm until the weapon dropped, then slice through its neck.

The third and fourth, though, came together. Blaine began to lose track, his arm swinging on instinct. Somehow he stuck one along the shoulder and it stumbled back. He swung blindly to his right and hit the other even as something sharp glanced off his ribs. He screamed and swung again, and there was an ugly cry as the creature stumbled and fell flat. The other was bleeding from the arm and crawling away through the blackening snow. Blaine spun around. There were two left, some six feet away, and a moment later he’d thrown his knife and there was only one. The remaining orc was larger than the rest, and a foul steam grunted from its nose. Blaine tightened his grip and the orc was upon him. There was clank after clank of metal, his arm shaking at the blows. He put all his weight into it, but the orc would not be pushed back. It was too tall, and strong, and soon it was driving its rusted blade blow after blow against Blaine’s until it was all Blaine could do to hold his sword steady in front of his head, and his footing was slipping. And then there was a blast—not of iron, but the resounding of a clear horn through the night. The orc paused in shock and with a cry Blaine stabbed it through. It was done. He had killed all six. He spun proudly to find Kurt. The elf was nowhere in sight. He called Kurt’s name, but before the word had left his lips he heard a second blast, from far up the path. Kurt’s horn. The elf was in trouble.

Blaine ran. He nearly stumbled at his own speed. A hoard of orcs were swarming near the fortress gate, and from their midst was a great flash, and cry. Kurt’s blade was soaring between the bodies, and flank upon flank the orcs fell back. Blaine could see the elf in glimpses between the swirling hoard, quick legs and straight arms, moving almost too swiftly to comprehend. He looked dreadfully tall, hair and limbs spinning violently between the foes, and his face shone terrible and mighty in the blue light from his sword.

Blaine did not think before he charged. With the creatures distracted he had slain three before they noticed him. Then the onslaught shifted. He was already exhausted, and yet he fought on. He had a vague sense that Kurt was struggling somewhere in front of him, but a line of orcs barred his way. Metal against metal he met their blades, and one by one they fell. Something slashed his right thigh and he cried out in pain, but it was not deep, and in a moment the beast lay dead. They knew little of battle, and the flash of Kurt’s sword and blast of his horn had shaken them. Surely they were no match for an Elf-lord in his wrath, or a ranger, defending the lands of his ancestors.

About Blaine things began to grow quieter. There were three left, and then two. Blaine could not see anything but the grey form before him, its spinning sword, and finally its slain head. The beast landed in the snow with a dull clang, and Blaine quickly spun to meet the next. There was no next. A few lone forms were scuttling back into the fortress. The battle was over.

“Kurt! Kurt, they’re fleeing!”

There was no reply. A fresh panic surged through Blaine’s chest. He stumbled forward. Near the gate a great heap of orcs lay hot and bleeding. A blue light still gleamed beneath them. Frantically Blaine heaved the bodies aside.

“Blaine.”

It wasn’t more than a breathy whisper but Blaine’s heart leapt to hear it. He dragged the elf out from the orc wreckage and propped him against his knee. “Kurt. We did it. We beat them back. Whatever they’re guarding, we can take it now, I know we can.”

Kurt smiled softly. There was a line of blood between his lips. It was too red, his face was too white.

“Kurt?” Frantically Blaine groped along Kurt’s body, searching it for wounds. His stomach. A wet band of blood gushed down from it at the touch. Blaine tried to catch it with his glove, tried to gently coax the wound to close, but Kurt was not moving, just smiling at him with the same quiet expression. “Kurt. No, Kurt, you’ll be okay. Here, let me help.”

“Hush.” With an effort Kurt met Blaine’s glove with his own, not pressing against the wound, but clasping Blaine’s fingers. “Hush, Blaine. It’s done. The decision has been made.”

“No.” None of it was real. But Kurt’s eyes were open, they were drifting away from Blaine’s face, up toward the stars.

“Hush. For three ages I have wandered this world in waiting. At last I am free to go. My family. My people.” His smile broke wider, and there was awe in his voice, but then he looked down from the stars, and met Blaine’s eye. “But I know, now, what I was waiting for. It was you, Blaine.” He laughed then, not the musical laughter of the elves, but a bitter chuckle that spat blood down his chin. “And so I will trade one sorrow for another. It was you, Blaine. It was you.”

“Kurt.” Even as he said it Kurt’s grip on his hand loosened. He glanced down to see the hand fall aside, his own glove drowned in blood. When he looked back to Kurt’s face, it was empty and cold. Blaine rocked violently into Kurt’s chest, shrieking in rage. It was over. He had come too late.


	9. In the Halls of the Witch-King

Inch by inch, the sun rose. Blaine could feel its heat on his neck, but beneath him Kurt grew colder. He would not open his eyes. His head was aching with tears. The throb of it was somehow worse than the wound in his rib, or leg. He shouldn’t be thinking any of this. He had no right to notice his body right now. Kurt was gone. Blaine’s whimpering swelled into another scream, but even that sounded too pathetic, not angry enough, not what Kurt deserved. The rank mix of tears and drool he had spilled against Kurt’s chest was freezing at the edges of Blaine’s face. He shouldn’t think of that. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now.

And then, all at once, it became too much. Blaine stood up. His legs wobbled beneath him. He looked at Kurt’s white face and barely had time to turn away before he vomited. He stood again and wiped his nose and mouth against his cloak. It was the hardest task of all his life to draw his eyes away from Kurt and back toward the fortress. It was what Kurt would have wanted, what Kurt would have done. And now that nothing mattered, it was the least that Blaine could do.

Blaine staggered forward, barely bothering to blink away the tears. He wanted to scream out something about vengeance but couldn’t think of what to say. He held his sword in front of him with both hands, tilting his head every few steps to wipe his nose against his shoulder. He stepped through the gaping doors, out of the snow onto a wet stone floor. Everything was suddenly dark, gloomy in the light of his sword, and it didn’t matter, Kurt was gone.

The chamber was wide, wider than he could see in the dim glow. To his right and left marble figures peered down at him, their robes stained with letters of a foul script. Doors loomed along his right, some opening to long black passages, others shut and barred with stone. Iron pockets that had once held torches dripped black rust down the walls. From somewhere beneath him came a dim rattle of footsteps, muffled by many walls of stone. Blaine walked. A few lose bones, or rotted scraps of flesh or cloth lay here and there as he went. He stepped over each without a thought, not veering right or left. The chamber ran on almost endlessly. After a few minutes he knew if he looked back he would no longer be able to see the light from the door, the figure laid in the snow. He did not look back.

He did not know how long he walked before finally reaching the chamber’s back wall. He groped along the cold stones for a few dozen yards, until he came upon an opening: a wide stair, the left leading upward and the right stretching down as though to a blackened pit and out of sight. A stench drifted from the downward passage, as though some poison was steaming from the fortress’s diseased belly. He went down.

His eyes were clear enough, now, to see the steps beneath his feet, and he could feel the horrible sickness within him giving way to a more primal terror, yet both still seemed strangely distant. On and on the stair went, at first a few dozen steps at a time followed by a landing and changed direction, and then a more disjointed path leading somewhere deep into the mountain. Lights, or pale echoes of lights, burned like phantoms on the edges of his vision. Now and then doors sprung up to the right or left, most square and ancient, but others rough holes, like the mouth of acidic caves gnawed outward from the mountain. Blaine did not turn aside. The glow of his sword grew slowly dimmer—he was passing beneath the orc’s lairs, and yet he had no doubt that whatever presence he sought lay deeper still.

For how long he walked Blaine did not know. The polished black of the fortress chipped away to a bare grey, and the stairs grew uneven. Vaguely Blaine wondered if he had already descended the length of the outer stair, even to the base of the mountain, or somehow deeper, to the roots below. After many minutes or hours the stairs finally came to their end. A narrow passageway stooped to meet him, its damp walls roughly carved. Then all at once the passage opened into a low room, flagged with a grey stone. The air was dreadfully heavy, like the very weight of the mountain were squeezing the chamber shut. Blaine’s steps slowed. He knew at once this was a dungeon, in centuries past, for there were square insets along each wall strung with limp chains, but whatever bones or bodies had been left here were now long gone. Here and there a stone table rested along the walls, like a bed, or tomb. Some had iron chains or prods still lain across them, but most were eerily bare. The torture chamber of the Witch-king. What it had been before that Blaine could not guess, and what purpose it served now he did not wish to know. His pace slowed, but he walked on. All about him a presence, like within the stone ring on the mountaintop, seemed to press against the edges of his vision. He was getting close.

Then about him the dungeon widened into a twisted cavern. On his right he could see a black row of ancient square passages cut through the uneven rock. On his left the darkness gathered thicker, concealing the opposite wall. Far away, but not nearly so far as it had been, a booming drum was sounding—not crashing metal, but something older, as though a piece of the mountain itself were awakening. He swallowed and lifted up his sword. There were worse places to die, he thought vaguely, worse times.

As if in answer, all about him a pale mist began to seep strand by strand out from the passageways. Almost like a slinking animal it moved, not a creature itself, but the breath of a creature, some shade of spirit. A sword would be useless, then. So be it.

The ground beneath began to echo with a hollow voice. Louder it grew, a stone chant in a language he could not understand.

“I am Blaine, son of Andros!” In the darkness his voice was both too loud and too small. “I am a man of Númenor! A Ranger of the North!” He was only a child, speaking words that were not his to speak. It made no difference. “These were once the lands of my people! You have no place here! Return to the shadows! Leave the north in peace!” Blaine swung his sword for emphasis, spinning recklessly in the empty room. The pale mists hesitated only a moment before swirling closer all about him. He did not step away—there was nowhere left to go.

From deep in the stone the chanting ebbed into a cruel laughter. It trembled through the close air until it threatened to consume him. He braced himself. There was hardly any light from his blade, and squint all he might he could not see what was ahead. Vaguely he felt other forms, gathering in the mists; the vapors began to stir as though disturbed by invisible hands reaching toward him. Wights, like on the mountain, he could tell from the unmoving cold in the air. Evil beings creeping out to haunt to north, orcs and trolls scattering in their wake, all sent by whatever creature loomed ahead. _For Kurt_ , Blaine thought. His eyes were filled again with water. He would die here, die forever, as was the doom of mankind. He would not find himself awakening with Kurt across the sea.

Then all at once the laughter hardened, as if narrowing to a fixed point in the passageway ahead. “Away!” It was a roar more than a word, booming through the chamber and echoing painfully off every wall. “Away tiny Dúnedain!” A colossal stomping resounded through the chamber. All about him the wights groped at his cloak with invisible hands. Already the chill of their touch was freezing his flesh. There was nowhere to flee. Was this how the rangers on the mountain top had died, frozen and terrified without any wound or mark? He breathed deep and stood taller, ignoring the searing ice against his skin. His eyes were fixed on the passageway ahead.

And then he saw it:

A dark spirit, blacker than the blackness all about, like a naked abyss of swirling shadow. It was a wraith, but not of Sauron’s making, for he knew naught of it. Agelong the beast had slept in hidden places, straying between mountain and wasteland until at the dark lord’s rising evil voices began to whisper once more in the deep places of the world. Tall it stood now, hung in billows of blackened smoke, and the strench of its burning spilled through the chamber, but it concealed no flame.

Slowly the figure lanked forward and its hollow voice swam about Blaine, until his ears felt split to bleeding. The groping fingers stilled as a foul incantation flooded the cavern, reverberating off every wall. Blaine’s legs trembled, but he was too numb to fall, too tired to think of running. With a desperate breath he hoisted his sword higher. _For Kurt_ , he thought.

With a howl the wraith swirled forward. The attack had begun. Blaine swung his sword blindly through tears and darkness. Even as his blade connected his arm chilled as though plunged in ice. He struggled the blade free, then hacked again, and again, screaming wildly at the darkness. The beast drew back a distance, and for a moment Blaine thought he’d wounded it, but it drew itself to an ever greater height, as though winding for a mighty blow. A shrill terror ran through Blaine, and he breathed deep, nearly choking on fumes. This was it. This was the end.

Then suddenly, as though on a clean wind from far away, Blaine thought he heard a thin voice cry out “ _Stand, Men of the West!_ ” It was not the wraith before him, but some other call, faint as though muffled by many shadows: “ _This is the hour of doom!_ ” For a moment the world stood still. Then all at once there was a terrific shriek, and the black spell was broken like the lifting of a dream. Blaine staggered backward. At once the room was changed. Blaine could feel the creature’s terror, as though far away in the lands above a great victory had been decided. _The halflings_ , he thought faintly, _perhaps they have won at last_. About him cold fingers were falling away like splintered glass. He opened his eyes.

The pale mists had scattered. The wights were gone, then, slinking back to some darkness beyond. Before him, though, the black wraith was only growing, snarling and frantic in the dark. Without a thought Blaine plunged forward.

He was caught in the frozen mists of it, a great pressure all about him, squeezing his limbs, his head. He screamed and flailed. He could feel his sword slicing against some hardened form. For a moment he broke free. He lunged forward again, sword held high, thrusting with all the strength he could muster. “Elbereth!” he cried, then “Khelehkurt Annunaer!” The beast staggered back. Its misted arms thinned as though to tattered cloth. “Go back!” Blaine shouted. “The dark lord is defeated! The king will come again!” He did not know how he knew, he did not know if even it was true, but he shouted louder, his voice growing stronger in the gloom. “These are not your lands! Your servants have left you! In the name of Elbereth Gilthoniel and Khelehkurt the brave, go back!” He swung, then, tearing at the creature wildly, and even as Blaine’s arms froze the wraith let out a desperate wail. With a hiss it began to slink away. Blaine did not pause, shouting and flailing after it until he had chased the creature far down the passage from which it came. At last Blaine’s steps slowed, and stopped. He had wounded it badly, of that he was sure. Whatever the wraith or power had been, it would surely creep back into the mountain to die, or to hide stagnant in the deep places of Angmar while in the lands above the north was cleansed.

Sword hanging limp before him, Blaine struggled back up the passage and into the dungeon once more. He had done it, he had faced the rising power of Carn Dûm, and defeated it, and Kurt was gone, gone.

Up many steps, Blaine staggered through the darkness. Soon he had not strength to hold his sword aloft, and sheathing it he groped lightless for many hours, but still he stumbled on. Whatever orcs had dwelled here, they were scattered now, and even as he ascended their clanging steps drifted far away to silence. At last he came again to the wide black chamber, lined with doors, and beyond, the open gates.

Outside the sun had passed into the west, and high above the first stars were gleaming through the twilight.  Kurt’s form was already half buried in the drifting snow: a bare face white beneath the heavens. Staggering to his side, Blaine fell to his knees, and wept.


	10. Epilogue

“You do not have to go.”

“Rachel.” Blaine looked up from his bed to see her standing in his chamber doorway, her hands clasped limp at her waist. Silhouetted against the light from the hall she looked almost the same slender woman he had met in Blackstone so many years ago, but she stood a little straighter, now, and in the torchlight he could just make out the glimmer of white that had begun to streak her hair. He put down his bag. “You knew it would come to this. You’ve always known.”

“The men will miss you.”

“I know. But they are ready.”

He went to her, holding lightly to her shoulders. She wrung her hands and eyed him carefully. “They have had a good teacher. But Blaine, please. Be sure you are certain, before you go. He has been dead so long.”

“Not dead. Only gone.”

“I know.” She sighed. “You were just so young, then.”

“So were you,” he reminded her. With a smile her gaze fell to the thin gold band she still wore around her finger. Many years had passed, but some things, they both knew, would never change.

When she looked up there were tears in her eyes. “I’ll miss you.”

“Rachel.” He wrapped her into a hug. “I’ll miss you too. Every single day I’ll miss you.” When he finally let her go his lashes were damp. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Any time, brother.” She tiptoed up to kiss his cheek one final time. 

*     *     *

In the morning he set out early, for it was a long path to the sea. The Greenway had been mended nearly two decades past, but other than the King’s men, who bowed deeply as he passed, Blaine met few travelers on the road. At night he drew a slender wooden harp from his bag, and played for long hours beneath the stars. His lute had been left to Eldarion, for it was too cumbersome for the journey.

Then on a fair evening he heard hooffalls, and clear voices rising out in the starlight. It was the host of riders from Rivendell, and others from Lorien across the Mountains. Elrond’s sons Elladan and Elrohir led the party, and they greeted Blaine with many smiles. He would not have been kept away, he promised, from this, their last departure.

From there they travelled on together. That night they sang songs of the great years; but as the days passed their minds drifted to older tunes: the Lay of Luthien, and songs of the Awakening on the shores of Cuiviénen,and of all the fair things they had seen on Middle-earth before the time of the elves had waned to reach its end at last.

It was a fair blue morning when Blaine first saw the light off the water. Salt drifted up to the hills, and far off gulls were crying. Farther still was open water, and beyond it, the uttermost west.

Círdan himself descended the great white stair to bid the elves away, and greeted each of them in turn. Blaine bowed low, when his time came, but before he could speak the elf had guessed his purpose.

“What elf-maiden was it,” Círdan asked sternly, “whose passing has tempted you to seek this road.”

“No maiden. Rather Khelehkert Annunaer, also called Lenwë, hero of the stand at Carn Dûm, your kin. On the journey he saved me thrice, and I him, once. But alas in the end I came too late. Still, he loved me, and I him. And now I would spend every jewel of Fëanor to see his face once more, and feast with him again before my end.”

To his left Elrohir straightened, but Elladan only smiled. Even Círdan’s stern visage was not without compassion. “I do not fault you your hope, son of Rivendell. But your grief is still young. In time its sting will lessen, and you may regret decisions made in haste.”

“Short must my life appear to you, and yet already my days have bent to reach their autumn. I have done as I must for many years, but ever now my heart is set upon the West. The leaves fall, and the sun is setting. For my part, it will not rise again.”

“And so you would ask my ships to bear you hence, unbidden and unwanted to those shores?”

“Not unwanted,” promised Blaine softly.

Círdan bent his head and sighed. “I speak to you with courtesy, son of Andros, for the tale of your deeds in the Great Years has not gone unsung in this house, and the mark of grief is still plain upon your face. But hear me when I say you do not know what it is you ask. Not for a long age of this world, since the isle of Númenor was brought into the sea, has a son of men dared to step upon the shores of the Undying Lands. That way lies folly, and your doom. Who are you, to endure the wrath of  Manwë? And even should I grant to you this favor, and even should you land upon those sands, you would not find the thing you seek. The blessed realm cannot undo the Doom of Man. When your time was spent you would still perish, and in so doing bring the grief of men to unspoiled shores.”

Even as Blaine’s heart fell it clenched with a new resolve. “Then let my feet not touch upon your shores. Rather, let me only rest within those harbors, never forsaking the cushion of the sea. There I could await my beloved, if he would hear my summons. But could he not be found, or should he choose to forgo this final grief, I would be content just to look from the sea upon the mountain where his feet now tread, and behold his final home. Such would be my wish, and should it be granted I will pass contented to the earth.”

Then Elladan spoke. “I will guard the man and bear his summons. I do not believe his heart is ill, nor his love misplaced.”

Círdan stood still a long while. “Very well,” he said at last. “You may embark with your friend and risk the narrow way. But you may not set foot upon the shore unless invited by a greater name than mine. And I warn you now: do not be dismayed if force or foe waylay you ere you arrive. This haven is my own, and here my grace rests upon you, elf-friend. What you may find across the sea is not mine to say.”

Blaine bowed deeply. “So be it,” he said, and his voice was solemn, but his eyes smiled; already the cares of many years had fallen from his brow, and he stood renewed.

With many long words did the elven party bid farewell to their kin. Then with a final thanks Blaine stepped with them onto a white ship, and the anchor was lifted.

So it was that Blaine son of Andros came at last to look upon the blessed isle of Valinor, where it had stood for days past reckoning, unmoved beyond the turning of the world. And as they neared there rang out a single blast, piercing like sun upon the snow, and Blaine’s heart leapt in song. There on the white shores stood a still figure, ageless and warm, washed of grief, merry in the dawn. Beyond all sorrows, here in the land of his people, Khelehkurt stood waiting.


End file.
